One More
by Josephyn
Summary: The Brothers' truce with the Foot has long since expired. Their family has become fractured, stressed by external aswell as internal conflicts. Now they are called upon to once again face their nemesis. But will they be able to unite and fight as one?
1. Chapter 1 Sweat

Disclaimer: TMNT are not my property.

She shivered as a cold bead of moisture ran down her bare arm. The sensation barely registered on her flesh.

Her clouded mind could not grasp the drop's origin; water, sweat, blood? Did it matter? One drop. One more drop.

'But where would the water come from? Wouldn't blood be warm to the touch?' She closed her eyes on the suffocating darkness.

Willed her mind to function above the most basic of levels. 'Yes, where would the water come from?' They had not fed her today.

They wanted her weak. They wanted her broken. They beat and starved her body. And now her body grew weak.

Weaker by the instant. But her mind, although clouding and deprived, was not broken. They had not broken her yet.

'This place is cold, but not damp. There is no humidity. No condensation. No precipitation.'

A second bead, (or was it the sixth, the tenth, the millionth?) ran down from her wrist. It shot straight down her forearm, and

curled around her taut tricep to sit uncomfortably in the curve of her arm pit, before following it's trail down the side of her body,

only to get lost in the damp folds of her shirt bunched around her waist.

'Would my blood not be warm to the touch? I am cold, yes, and my arms, raised above my head in this appropriately

mideval fashion, are not receiving adequate circulation, but still... blood is warm, hot even, when its first spilled.

Sweat.'

She chewed on the word. Sweat. Even dared to breathe it aloud. Her dried lips cracked with the slight movement.

'Sweat. Sweat. Sweat.' She chanted the mantra in her mind. The singular word parting the fog momentarily before

it clouded over again. The fog was growing thicker. Harder to clear, and knitting itself together again at a swifter pace.

'Sweat..Sweat...Sweat...Sweat...'


	2. Chapter 2 Release

The dark fog was lifting. Splitting apart, hovering, before slowly knitting back together.

Her tired body resisted the movement. Her stiff shoulders yielded painfully as the shackles that bound her

wrists above her head were lowered in front of her torso. Her legs, weak and strained, were useless to hold

the sudden weight of her body, as her position was altered by the slackened chains. And through this, slowly

the fog parted, hovered, and knit itself together once more.

Nothing... clouds..movement?.. fading...nothing.

And again.

That black fog... relief?.. fading... and then the cold gritty floor beneath her cheek.

The darkness was lifting once more, teasing her with its absence, before reclaiming her in body and mind.

But the darkness was lessening. Losing its density, it was no longer absolute. It fought against the relative

light of the pitch black room, clawing at her as it faded til it was no more than a transparent veil through which

shapes and the occasional shuffling sound could penetrate. She cracked open her parched mouth, desperate

to drag in as much sour air as her damaged lungs could handle. Desperate to force her way through that damned

veil.

The filthy floor was ice cold against her flushed cheek, almost painfully relieving. The chill's touch roamed

over her entire body, penetrating warm flesh where her bare skin made contact, seeping through the thin layers of

fabric where her worn clothes pressed against the ancient stone. Her eyes rolled open at the sound of a quiet body close

to her. She recognized her own hands as she saw ,more than felt, them lifted off the ground, still wrapped in chains.

A moment later, (or was it several?), her hands were placed close to her body, wrists pink, rubbed raw, bloodied, but

unrestrained. She drew a hoarse breath and curled her arms closer to her core. The quiet footsteps that had managed

to penetrate the dark veil ceased. The pitch black room seemed to close in on her, threatening to crush the new found

air from her tired lungs. She could hear only her own ragged breaths. Painfully drawing air in; letting it seep from her open

mouth in a rush. The darkness again seemed to loom.

Then, movement.

A shadow moving in blackness not a foot from her mangled body. Not so much a person, as an entity. Something, but nothing.

Nothing moving within nothingness.

Slowly,from the darkness a shape emerged. Low to the ground, ghosting above the floor, directly in front of her wide, nearly blind eyes.

A blotch, a blur of something. A shadow of superior density to the darkness in which it crept. It hovered in the outer reaches

of her sight. It hesitated. Then moved again, closer, it's movement smooth, confident.

A face.

Green.

That of an animal.

She flinched, shrinking on on herself, a vain attempt to protect what life she had left from attack. She did not cry out. She

had no strength for an act that vigorous. A weak whimper escaped from the further reaches of her throat,and her brow creased

in what would normally be considered mild discomfort. The creature, as if sensitive to the girl's anxiety stopped its advancement.

It regarded her a moment, breathing deeply and steadily. The face was joined in the darkness by a hand that moved at the same

tentative pace as the preceding appendage. Slowly, but steadily, intent on its destination. A whimper again in the cold dark room

as the rather large paw was lowered onto the tragic girl's forehead. It rested there, with deceptive tenderness, before quickly sweeping

around to gently grip the base of her neck, negotiating it's way through her mess of hair. She felt the sure touch of the calloused fingers on her skin.

The foreign flesh felt cool, almost welcome, on her heated nape. The grip was secure. There was strength in that hand, but still, the hold was mindful.

The brow on the strange face furrowed. The lips pulled back revealing thick teeth and the Thing hissed sharply.

Another useless flinch.

The creature's hand remained firmly planted on the neck of the crumpled heap on the ground.

A desperate breath in. One more breath.

"Don't..."

The oppressive darkness swallowed the hoarse whisper. A look of, what?.. recognition?.. in the animal's eyes. It's lips pulled back once more,

curling up at one side. A snear? A growl? An assertion of dominance, perhaps?

It opened It's mouth.

"I promise".


	3. Chapter 3 Into The Night

"I promise." The hushed words flowed over the clammy face of the crumpled girl before they

were swallowed by the all-consuming darkness. A shudder. A sigh. Nothing.

The strange new creature watched as the girl seemed to deflate. It was almost as if all life had been sucked

out of her tired skin, leaving only an empty casing before him. But, even in the black, his trained eyes could see the

shallow, unsteady rise and fall of her chest. His sharp ears picked up the harsh wheeze that accompanied her continued

existence. Beads of cool sweat clamoured over the fingers of his hand, still firmly lodged at the nape of her neck. The

heat of her skin leeched into his, warming first the top layer of his epidermus before seeping further into his flesh, further into

his muscle, until, at last, the new heat was bone deep. His hand, warmed by flesh, by the very life of the girl in his grasp,felt

strangely alien, inconsistant with his body's own core. And as his hand pulsed with foreign heat, he knew still that it was

not enough. He,as cool as the chilled air that engulfed him, sensitive to the elevated heat of the sleeping girl, was aware that her heat

was not what it should be. His skin knew intimately, secretly, the heat human flesh could radiate. The soothing warmth that accompanied

the warm-blooded. He reveled in it. Secretly. Wantonly. From a distance. His hand was merely warmed by the girl. Soothing. Relieving, even.

But not the consuming, absolute heat that he would expect from such complete contact. Again, he hissed. This girl was farther gone then

they had hoped.

"I promise".

The creature scuttled closer, scooping the crumpled form securely in his arms, then rose, with grace and precision.

He was alone now. With his arms occupied, aware of his own vulnerablility, and that of his charge, he melted once

again into the numerous shadows. His feet made no sound as they carried the two from the dank, sour room. His eyes never rested, always

scanning, pressing into the darkest reaches of the shadowed hallway he now roamed. This enemy was not to be underestimated. They were

a worthy advisary. A challenge he did not wish to accept. Expecting any mercy on their part would be foolish.

A mistake once made in the past. A mistake he was not likely to commit again.

His bulky form slid through the darkness as smoke. Fitting to every black corner, shifting to fill every shadow, making no sound, leaving

nothing to tell.

Reaching a short, cement hallway, he paused, breathing shallow, steady as he slipped his sight around the bend. The low ceiling, and tight

walls would impede his rather quick progress. He let a silent prayer of thanks and hope drift momentarily through his mind. The architecture was

familiar. He shifted the girl in his arms. The sweat that had begun to soak through the back of her dingy shirt had dampened his forearms. Still

the heat that radiated from her form seemed to have lessened even since his discovery of her. The end of the corridor was drowned in darkness.

Only memory served to tell that a doorway existed in the pitch black. And beyond that doorway, air,free of the stench of rot and decay. The hallway

stood empty. Deserted. Boring. His knowing eyes scanned the corridor again, searching where the beloved door must be.

There.

Near the end of the

hall. A shadow within the shadows. A suggestion of density within the air. Snapping back around the bend, out of sight, the creature breathed in a lungful

of the offensive air. One more breath.From his throat escaped a barely audible sigh. A soft sound that was greedily eaten by the grasping shadows that clothed him. Barely

audible. Except by ears trained to listen for advancing shadows. From around the bend, an answer, akin to the wind through a naked tree.

Slowly the animal proceded down the hall, stooped, hunched, cradling his charge protectively. As mindful to sheltering her from his own hulking form, as

any potential dangers. Ahead, his eyes saw the dense matter shift, rise, grow, and then take on defintion. He moved towards it, coming to stand beside

it as he reached the doorway. He stood there a moment in the darkness, and watched as his companion scanned the girl in his arms from her face, to her body,

down her legs, then back again, settling quickly on her face. It grunted. The creature shifted the being in his arms again, shrugging his shoulders while doing so, and

bringing the girl to rest more securely against his hard chest.

"That her?"

"I would assume so... I hope so"

A curt nod of the head. The second creature turned towards to the door. "Be ready to get out of here fast, we dont want any attention here. So far, I think we're

all under the radar." He tried the handle. It turned smoothly, a slight whine as the tired metal shifted. His eyes scanned the darkness. "What took you so long anyhow?"

He threw a look over his shoulder at his waiting partner, his snout pulled up at one end in a vicious snarl.

"Leo's gotta be having a fit. Heh" His head turned back towards the fresh air and quiet settled on them as he searched the horizon.

"Yep, they are. You want me to take her, Donnie?"

"I'm fine. Lets go."

"Okay. Lets do this," as he slid out from behind the heavy sheet of steel, stepping aside and holding the door ajar as Donatello slid out into the night after him.

Without a whisper of sound between the two of them, they quickly made thier way several yards from the structure that had until recently held them, all the while

bleeding into the black of the night. Donatello could feel the sharp sting of the wind off the water as it whipped the ties of his bandana against the side of his neck.

He breathed it in, grateful, as he came to rest with his companion behind some discarded oil drums, long since rusted.

"Please tell me this is the right girl." Donnie heard the smile in his brother's voice. A hand landed roughly, impatiently on his shoulder, trying to turn him unsuccessfully.

He turned and faced the man behind him. The man gasped, drawing the air in through his teeth, much like Donatello had done on initially feeling the girl's low temperature.

"Thats her, but...God."

The reaction was understandable.

A timid green hand reached towards the sleeping girl's face, drawing back some of the matted hair that had fallen on her closed eyes.

"Leos up top. Come on." The timid hand retracted, and it's owner sprung into the darkness leaving the others to follow or be left. Donatello cast a quick glance over his

shoulder. His brother rested a hand on the Man's shoulder. Donatello followed, the girl did not have time for shock or grief. He trusted his brother to care for their friend, he

had to care for the girl. Raphael was foolish in many ways, but he would not allow him or his only friend to be sighted. He found his guide on the roof of a nearby warehouse.

One, that he trusted was deserted. He trusted that fact not because of the appearance or quiet, but due to the presence of his eldest brother, crouched deceptively

patiently on the edge. He walked away from the ledge to his brother who had met him below and led him to this rendez-vous, his only acknowlegment to the other, a short

nod of the head. He knew Leonardo was curious, but would not bother him until they were in a more secure holding. It was not safe here. Here it was open. He crouched

down by his brother and rested the girl in his lap, taking advantage of the stop to once again check her for signs of life best her could. Again, that timid hand returned,

brushing hair from her forehead, and when that was all smoothed out of the way, gently smudging the filth from her cheek. Donatello looked up at his younger brother.

His head was down, but he knew from the stoop in his shoulders, and the light tremble of his fingers that his eyes would be blurred with tears. Donatello looked agian at the

girl, for the first time, really accessing the damage she had survived. Her lip was cut, swollen. Blood has dried down the side of her face, he suspected

a nasty lump had formed under her matted hair, and feared that her unsteady condition may had been caused by a concussion, rather than mere

malnutrition as he had initially surmissed. Two fingers of her right hand were bent three places at unnatural angles. Her left arm hung loosely at her side, useless.

Donatello, shut his eyes, shaking his head. He did not want to know what other abuse she may have suffered, what evidence he may find if he were to

thoroughly examine her. He forced his large finger to her neck, desperate for distraction. Her pulse pushed lightly against his fingertip.

"We have to hurry," to noone in particular.

"We're taking her to Casey's". He looked up to find his Blue brother standing over his shoulder, the Man in question just beyond him.

Donatello scooped the delicate mass back into his arms, taking special care to fold her left arm across her body before taking off into the night,

flanked by his bretheren.


	4. Chapter 4 Wash Away Sin

The brothers fled through the night, clustered around their contraband. The Man in the lead moved swiftly,

miraculously dodging and weaving, not at all hindered by the lack of revealing light. The creatures at his side easily

kept his pace. Donatello shifted the girl again and again in his arm, his hands growing moist with perspiration; a intimate

mixture of hers and his own. He concentrated on his breathing; slowly, steadily. And grace in his movements followed.

He leapt and ran, soared through the air, through the night. Not one misstep. The Girl rocked in his arms, nestled

carefully within his hold, pressed against his hard chest. He was vaguely aware of the slowing pace of the group, and

raised his head. They were in one of the older districts of the city. In it's day, the neighbourhood had been nothing more than

a residential expansion, but as time moved on, as it was apt to do, the spacious lofts became quite valuable. The exteriors

left much to be desired, but the size of the units was nearly unheard of within the city limits. The five figures were perched along

the ledge of one of the condos, looking into the variously lit windows of the building across the way. Donatello counted the

obviously occupied rooms, knowing that his brothers were doing the same.

"It's the one on the top," Casey whispered.

"You can get in through the roof. Exclusive access."

"I can see you've been here often, Raph. Why am I not surprised?" Leonardo never took his eyes off the intended

destination. His eyes did not settled on one area for more than a moment, constantly accessing, never resting.

"Alright, looks like this is as quiet as its going to get. Casey, any particular route you can recommend?"

"How about... over?" Raph sneered as he dropped off the rooftop, only to reappear a moment later on the roof of a neighbouring building,

repeating the process, materializing on roof after roof, making his way to the specified building.

"Yeah, you just gotta get over there, you know, so..." Casey dropped off the ledge, taking his own route across the buildings of the

neighbourhood.

"How eloquent. Well, at least its the tallest one around here, so once we get over we should be fine. Keep it covered, boys."

As Leo took off into the night, Donatello readjusted his grip once more, and made a note to stay close to his brother.

The loft was lit by overhead lighting, and one standing lamp in the far corner, the blinds already drawn across the large windows

that spanned the living area. Raphael was standing in the corner near the window, throwing a shadow from the floor lamp, as if cast in stone.

His dark eyes bore into the man a few paces away, his arms crossed his body. Casey peeked out from behind the blinds, lifting the wooden

slats to peer between the obstruction, then letting it fall lazily back into place, not caring to stop it from swaying under it's own weight.

He turned, almost surprised to find his apartment occupied.

Donatello lay the Girl on the wooden floor of the living room. He slid his arms from beneath her body, cradling her head in his

large hand as he gently guided it to the floor. A pillow was shoved rather unceremoniously under his nose. He could feel the object tremor

as he accepted the offer, sensitive to his younger brother's need to help.

"Mike, can you start a bath, please? She's too cold, and that should help warm her. Not too hot though, just warm." He gave instruction

as his hands moved down the body of the stranger. He started at the neck, turning it to the left, then right, gentle in his manipulations.

He did not think that there was any spinal damage from his brief interaction with her earlier, but he was thorough if nothing else. He then moved

his hands down her arms, once again noting the limp left arm.

"Dislocated. Can somebody hold her so I can pop this back in?" He asked the room while his hands felt along the marred joint.

"I'll ..." He heard Leo speak.

It was Raphael who knelt down and scooped the Girl into a sitting position, and steadied her body.

"She may wake from the pain."

Raphael clutched her more securely to his body, wrapping both arms around her, one across her torso, the other around her healthy

shoulder, over her neck, and guided her head firmly into his shoulder. Donatello scuttled closer to his brother, and once again felt

around the joint, accessing the angle and amount of pressure needed. His lips moved as he re-read the text in his mind, double checking

his memory as to the proper process, his hushed whispers accompanied by the muted drum of the filling tub in the next room.

Satisfied, he picked up the damaged arm, and held it at an awkward angle by the wrist. He moved his right hand to the elbow, to

re-enforce his grip. He took a deep breath in, and let it hiss out past his teeth, locking eyes with his brother, who stiffened slightly.

With a quick breath, he wretched the arm in a vicious motion, twisting, and pressing. A hollow click sounded.

The Girl gasped, the breath catching in her throat. Her body shuddered, lungs clenched in sudden pain. He head snapped back,

loose from Raphael's grip, hitting his shoulder, before he grasped her again, steadying her head with the crook of his arm.

His scowl froze as he looked down into the face of the awake girl. His eyes widen, his face softened, his body stiffened once more.

The Girl lay trapped in his hardened frame, choking on air, one arm trapped between his body and her own, the other still wretched behind her

at an unnatural angle, held firmly in place by Donatello. Her eyes flickered open and shut, fluttered as her breathing began to regulate itself once

more. Her eyes fluttered furiously, fighting to remain open, fighting to rest once more. Her breath became softer still as Raphael felt any

last trace of tension leave her body. The fingers of the hand in Donatello's care hung from the palm. Her head fell back a fraction, gravity

pulling her onto the rounded shoulder. Her lips moved. A twitch. Then again. Movement, and a sigh.

A whisper.

Her eyes fell closed. Lashes resting gratefully on her cheek.

A rush of breath escaped Raphael's lungs. His ebony eyes darted up from the Girl to his brother beside him, sharing a relieved glance.

Donatello delicately righted the newly mended arm, and folded it against her chest.

"We'll need something for a sling, later on."

"I'll go find something," Casey faltered as he rose from the floor, making his way to what Donatello assumed to be the bedroom.

"Hmm, this really has him shaken up." Leo let his curiousity reign as he leant in over the girl.

Raphael tightned his loosening grip on her.

"Raph, lay her down, I need to look at those fingers."

The Girl was once again laid flat against the wooden flooring, and Donatello's deft hands moved over her broken body. He concentrated now

on the mangled fingers of her right hand. "Raph, does Casey have a first aid kit? I'll need it, and see if it has splints in it, or find something

that I can use in it's place. I'll need two spints for these fingers. And medical tape, but that should be in the kit. Okay?" He vaguely heard

a muttering of "Yeah, I think I can handle that..." as he continued on with his work.

"How's it looking?" The voice was soft, concerned. Now that immediate danger was past, his older brother allowed his mask to fall by the way-

side. He had leaned in again, surveying the damage. His eyes caught at the wrists, the skin torn and bruised.

"Shackles."

Donatello looked up from his musings, unsure if he had heard correctly, or if his brother had simply sighed at the sight. He was assured he had been correct,

however when he looked upon his brother. Leonardo's gaze had still not moved from the wounds ringing the Girl's wrists. His breathing was accelerated,

rushed. "They tied her down, and... No honour. There is no honour in that..." The muscle at his jaw worked, flexed repeatedly. His steely eyes had not

moved, yet they no longer saw the damaged skin. Donatello felt him leave. He knew his brother was no longer in the loft. No longer, even,

in the present. His mind, his essence had been sucked out of his skin, ripped from his physical being, to a place where noone could follow.

The muscle at his jaw worked, flexed one more time. His eyes did not blink. He did not feel the hand that landed on his shoulder. He did not

hear his younger brother enter the room.

"Baths ready, Donny. Warm, not hot. Is she ok? Raph's tearing through the cabinet...Leo?"

"I'm fine." The words came out too fast, too urgent.

"Mike, I need you get some ice, actually. I'm getting worried about the possibility of a concussion. Although, if it's severe, I don't know

how much I can do about it. If there's hemoragging... Uh, some frozen peas, or something. Whatever he has."

"Peas. Right." Michelangelo stalked towards the kitchen to complete his second task, less then enthusiastic.

"Donatello. Do you think she has a chance to recover?" Leo's eyes were glassy still, but there was light behind them. Presence.

"Well, " he looked down at the crumpled girl; her hair dirty and matted, her face bruised, dried rivulets of blood down her cheek, her

left arm tucked across her chest, her right hand a mangled mess of broken bones. He thought of her fitful periods of consciousness, her

cold skin clammy with sweat. "There's a chance that anything could happen. Leo, she's feverish, so she may very well have some

sort of infection already, and if it's reached her bloodstream... And I really do think she has a serious concussion, which could

mean bleeding in the brain, in which case she could just die in her sleep, and theres nothing any of us could do about it, there

wouldn't even be any warning signs. Shit, even a splinter from a cracked rib could be rushing through her bloodstream right

now and ram into her heart, and that would be it!" Donatello heaved, frustration and exhaustion flooding out with his tirade.

He closed his eyes on the scene at his knees. His brother, mask sliding easily back into place. The Girl.

"That poor girl. What could one person do to deserve this kind of punishment?"

"We'll find out." There was no concern in that voice. No room for mercy.

"Carrots."

Donatello openned his eyes to find Michelangelo kneeling beside him, the Girl's head practically in his lap. He leaned down, smoothing

his hand again over her head, brushing mattes of hair from her forehead, finding the large lump on the side of her head. The bag of

carrots crinkled as it molded to the curve of her skull. And still, his other hand smoothed over her forehead , comforting, soothing.

Silence fell over the four huddled on the floor.

A shadow cast itself over the group.

"No splints. This is all he's got." A plastic case was dropped by Donatello's thigh. Store bought. Basic. Band-Aids, and Polysporin.

Useless.

"Alright. I want to get her into that bath before it cools too much." He scooped the girl up once more, easily cradling her against himself, the

position becoming familiar. He raised himself to his feet and turned to leave. "I think we should get Sensei. I may have some provisions

that could help at home, but here, theres only so much we can do.

And it wont be enough."

He left his brothers crouched on the hardwood floor of the cavernous loft. As he passed, he noted the darkened bedroom, the door slightly

ajar. Further down the hallway another door stood open. Light cascaded from the entrance, illuminating his path.

Donatello stepped into the room, blinking against the light. As promised, the tub was filled, and though the room had been heated

by the water, there was no steam on the large mirror above the handsink. He lay her once more on the floor, taking care of dispensing

her despite the plush carpet that cushioned the tile. He gingerly removed her soiled clothing; peeling her arms from the clinging cotton t-shirt,

raising her head to remove it completely. Her ribs were blue and yellow, painted with bruises, and yet, miraculously, whole. His large fingers

fumbled with the buttons of her shorts, and he pulled off of her legs long socks thats had long since fallen and bunched around her chins. He paused,

his fingers under the shoulder straps of her undergarments. He stared at the foreign sight. His calloused olive fingers resting against her tanned skin,

the thin triple strings of black running over his hand. The lace, he noted, fragile as it was, remained in tact, as if unawares of the troubles

of it's wearer. He felt his cheeks heat with a sudden rush of blood. He closed his eyes, fought to steady his breathing. Then looked upon his

hand once more. His fingers slipped from under the straps. He picked her up, and placed her into the warm water. Michelangelo, he had noted,

had left an assortment of towels, and soap on the closed lid of the toilet. Donatello chose one of the smaller items, rolled it, and cushioned

the back of the ceramic tub. He watched as the water swirled around her body, flushing away filth and debris without provocation.

He hesitated, his hand above the water.

"Yes?"

"Sensei wants to see the girl for himself," Raph leaned his shoulder against the doorjam, legs crossing at the ankles. "Leo went to get him."

"Hmm." A nod.

"You look pretty beat. Why don't you rest? I can watch her, make sure she doesn't slip under."

"It's not just that, she has a dozen scrapes and minor lacerations that need to be cleaned out. And her hair."

"I can do that."

"Shouldn't you be with Casey? Comfort him or something?"

"He's taking some time," he threw his head in the direction of the dark bedroom. "Besides, I don't do comforting.

But cleaning up those, uh, minor lacerations... I can do that."

Donatello blinked his weary eyes. He imagined sand had settled in his lids. With a tired groan, he stood, arching his back, and

throwing his hands above his head. "Don't take too long. I'd like to have her out for when Sensei arrives." He paused at the doorway,

"Call me right away if she wakes up again."

"Yeah, yeah." Raphael knelt by the tub, and dipped his hand into the water, testing the temperature. He guided the water over her shoulders,

and onto her neck, before cradling her head in one of his wide palms, and tilting her hair into the clouding water. He used his free, moist hand

to coerce some dirt from her face as her hair hung in the bath water, filth dissolving of its own accord.

"Your hair's not black, it's brown," He spoke softly, not letting his voice carry past the open bathroom door.

"You gonna wake up for me agian? You gotta wake up, sweeetheart.

We gotta find out what makes you so damned special to Casey.

Gotta find out what makes you so damned threatening to the Foot."


	5. Chapter 5 Shadows of Truth

Donatello's feet padded softly on the hardwood flooring. He ventured a look into the bathroom before turning and

entering completely. The heat and humidity hit him like a wall, clinging to his skin, and invading his sinuses. Steam

billowed from the tub. He leaned to peak over his crouched brother's shoulder; the water swirled freely around the Girl's

legs, the white bottom of the porcelain tub accenting the marred, tan skin.

"Raph, Sensei is here. Are you finished?"

"72 seconds."

"What? It looks like you've done a very thorough job, and Caseys set out some clothes for her, so come on. Lets go."

"63 seconds. Give me a minute."

"One minute? What do you need a minute for? Raphael, it has been a long night. Some of those cuts need to be bandaged,

her fingers need to be put in splints, we need a sling to secure her shoulder... We still have to decide what we're going to

do about her! Sensei is here, waiting to see her. We have to talk to Casey about this whole mess..."

"You said to wash her up. See here? 'Massage through clean hair, concentrating on ends. Leave on three minutes. Rinse

thoroughly.' So, 49 seconds, please." The white tube with a gold embossed label was thrust unceremoniously into Donatello's

face. The wet, slimy edge bumped his snout. He wiped the white cream off with the back of his wrist, snorting at the scent of

coconut oil.

Raphael could hear the snort as his brother exited the small room. "Donny..."

"What?"

"Those three hours a night really aren't doing ya!"

The feet stomped towards the living area. " He's still washing her damned hair!"

The worn end of the wooden cane clapped softly, rhythmically against the hardwood flooring of the hallway. The sound, so familiar,

grew ever stronger as it approached the doorway. The wise rat took in the sight before him; his son crouched at the side of an occupied

bathtub, his bulky figure blocking any view of the ward currently in his care.

"My son, are you in need of assistance?"

Raphael sighed at the low voice. He turned to glance over his shoulder, hesitating for a breath. "I don't think this is going to work."

The rat merely cocked his head to the side in question. Raphael, in turn, huffed once again, but rose slightly, pivoting on his heels, allowing

the Girl to be seen. She lay still, skin bruised, and marred, but clean. Her head lay against the side of the tub, cheek resting on the large porcelain

lip. Her hair hung over the side of the tub, dripping freely onto the floor, comb embedded an inch or so from her scalp. The rat took in this sight, and that

of his son, crouched, arms soaked to the elbow, plastron and thighs splashed. Defeated.

"Yes, I suppose you boys wouldn't have any experience with... this aspect of grooming." He moved closer to the tub.

"I think we have to cut it out."

"There is no need to be so rash, Raphael," he knelt beside his son, thin fingers reaching for the comb. "You are right, this comb cannot

be pulled from her hair, but perhaps we can persuade it." His fingers moved steadily over the comb, moving the hair, a few strands at a time.

The progress was slow, but undeniable. "I would be a very bald, very cold old man if I cut the comb out of my fur everytime I tangled." He chuckled.

It was a low, soft sound, that sat in the back of his throat. When the comb was finally freed from it's prison, the Rat set it aside, by his knee.

"Now, Raphael," his gnarled hands worked quickly as he spoke, dividing the matte of hair, grasping one section in his palm. "Small sections at a time.

Too much will cause you great frustration... and it hurts." A quick smile. "And begin at the bottom," he demonstrated. "See how much

easier the knot detangles." He openned his palm, held the comb out towards his son.

Raphael shuffled on his heels, his shell scraping against the toilet bowl. He lifted the wet hair from his father's palm, into his own. He lifted

the waiting comb and set to the task of untangling the mass of hair once more, mimicking his father's movements. The old Rat portioned off another

section and set forth, combing his fingers through the mess. Father and son sat, knelt by the side of the tub, working in silence.

Time passed unnoticed, until the comb passed freely through the curling locks. The Rat grunted in satisfaction. Raphael dropped the comb and dove his

hands into the wet hair, dragging them through, scalp to ends, feeling the silken strands between his rough fingerpads. When the hair dropped from his grasp

he thrust his hands into the mass once more, and repeated the process.

"My Teng Shen had the most glorious hair. It shone as the night." The voice was soft, almost a whisper, and contemplative.

Raphael's hands froze in their action, his eyes glued to the sight of his large hands consumed by the decievingly delicate curls.

"Ah, but now is no such time for an old man's memories. Come now, my son." He rose, lifting a large towel with him, and stepped aside as

his child leaned and gathered the clean Girl from the water, splashing water down his front, onto the floor. The towel was tucked securely around the bundled form,

the mess on the floor ignored, as they exited the small humid room, and walked on towards the dimly lit bedroom.

Water pooled in the crook of Raphael's arm, dripping from her hair, her neck, her back. Her head rested heavily on his rounded shoulder, and the

scent of coconuts assaulted his nostrils. Raphael ducked his head, snout hovering above her damp forehead, and breathed deeply, holding the scented air

in his lungs.

The room was lit only by the twin tablelamps that guarded each side of the massive bed. The brown sheets lay open in invitation. At the foot,

a pile of clothing was neatly draped, waiting. Shadows hung in the air, splashed across the walls and onto the floor, odd shapes that danced and moved

in an unseen wind. Raphael paused at the doorway, heart suddenly thudding in his chest at the sombre atmosphere, pounding so hard he feared the Girl

would be jostled from her sleep.

He made his way to the bed and deposited the Girl, stepping aside, painfully aware of the walls of the room, and the many occupants leaning upon

any available surface.

Michelanglo, seated on the plush floor, drew his knees up towards his chest, clasping his arms around his legs, bringing his chin to rest on the

surface of his kneecaps.

Raphael pressed his shell into the wall behind him, folded his arms across his plastron, eyes skimming the room, then settling on the back of

his brother's neck on the floor in front of him.

Casey stood at the far end of the bed, as still as the wooden post he pressed his weight against.

Donatello moved swiftly, surely, spreading the contents of a plastic bag onto the unmessed portion of the bed, not far from the Girl. His hands sped

over various medical provisions; suture kit, gauze and tape, metal splints, a large piece of folded fabric, a pen light...

Leonardo stood beside, not against, the large cherry wood armoir, chest out, shoulders back, chin up. Eyes on the Girl. Inspecting her from afar.

His voice broke the silence of the room.

"I trust everything went well?" It wasn't a question.

Raphael clenched his jaw, teeth straining under the pressure.

"Your brother took great care and consideration in his tending to the Girl," Splinter strode to the bedside. "Such things cannot be rushed." He rested his weight on his

ever present cane, free hand finding the Girl's damp cheek. He took his time studying her; her newly cleaned hair, her still-parched lips,

the patterns of bruising on her ribs, arms, wrists, legs, the mangled, unnatural angles of her broken digits, all as he gently passed a towel over her wet skin.

"I will leave what is next to you, Donatello," he regarded his son, kneeling by his side, gauze already portioned, cut into appropriate pieces.

Silence descended once more on the room, only to be disturbed in time by the odd sharp 'pop' as the broken fingers were set into the splints.

All eyes were focused as Donatello finished with his nursing, brow furrowed as he checked her resting pulse, temperature and pupils.

He drew in a breath, rubbing a great paw over his head, exhaustion and strain etched into his face, pulling at his eyes.

"Her temperature seems to have evened out some, and the chill seems to be gone. Her pupils are reacting, she's breathing steadily, pulse

is... acceptable, pretty good, I'd say for all..this," he gestured with a sweep of his hand. "But she could have a concussion, she could have

internal bleeding, and without an IV to give her fluids, unless she wakes up... I mean, I dont know when she's last had any water, or food..."

His shoulders heaved with another mighty breath, head dipping to meet his chest.

"She needs a hospital." Again, not a question.

Donatello nodded his head nonetheless.

"No." It was the first reaction from their host by the bedpost. "No hospitals," he looked up to meet the five pairs of eyes now on him. "I don't think

that woule be a... safe idea."

"Perhaps you would care to explain your objection, Casey." The voice was soft, yet assured, there was great strength under the apparent frailty.

"They're gonna be looking for her soon," his eyes scanned the room, searching for support. All he found was confusion, even suspicion in the waiting

eyes that stared back. "She can't... they can't find her."

Leonardo turned his body towards the man, shoulders falling further back, chin dipping, as he centered his gaze on Casey alone. "Why don't you tell us

who she is, and what you managed to drag us into." Not a question.

"I don't know _who_ she is, I told you guys that..."

"Casey, enough!" The blue turtle's voice snapped through the air. He stalked forward. "You didn't see her overcome by the Foot Elite Guard

the other night by chance, now did you?" Not a question. "You know _something_ about her and you are going to tell us _everything_." Each word perfectly

pronounced and spat forth. Each syllable commanding submission. The quiet tone did nothing to soften the unspoken meaning behind them.

"I feel, perhaps, that this may be a long story," the quiet voice whispered across the room, stilling the advancing Leonardo. "Some tea, I think, would

prove appropriate."

Leonardo stood deathly still, his chest expanding slightly with every measured breath. At last he turned to his Sensei, and bowed slightly, before striding

out of the room.

"Donatello, please see that the Girl is comfortable and join us in the living room. Casey, you do indeed have much to tell us, I'm sure." The inflection in his voice

remained constant, his meaning needing no additional emphasis.

Casey looked about the room at the remaining occupants, from Michelangelo's somewhat stunned expression, to his friend across the room who glared

back, huffed, shaking his head slightly, and stomped out of the bedroom after his Father.

Donatello took the time to check the Girl's vital signs once more, placing the thermometer in her right ear, while he felt her pulse in the side of her neck. After a moment;

"You shouldn't have lied to us, Casey. The best thing you can do to fix all this now is to just tell us the truth." He caught the focus of the man he had considered

a friend before the gadget in his hand beeped, indicating a temperature had been detected. He looked down, and brought the display screen to his face,

reading the number purposefully as Casey brushed by his side on the way to the hall. He noted, however, the click of the bathroom door a moment later.

Donatello lifted the edge of the duvet, fluffing it as he rested it over the Girl. He stood back a moment, watching the unmoving human face.

"This is.. pretty bad, huh Donny." Donatello never liked to hear that tone in his brother's voice. He liked to think that this sober, saddened version of

his younger brother was an anomoly, a passing mood that would skim across the surface of his character, leaving him untouched, something

easily forgotten and disregarded. He knew that was untrue. A fantasy. His younger brother was the proof of just how much they had all changed,

had change forced upon them, within the past 18 months. Donatello didn't answer, he had no answer.

Michelangelo leaned down over the Girl, and scooped her wet hair from beneath her head and neck, fanning it on the pillow.

"I think no matter what Casey says, we have to help her. I mean, we can't just let the Foot have her. This is just..." he searched for an accurate word. "Cruel."

Donatello had no objection, no words of consolation. Instead, he slung his arm around the shell of his brother. A sad smirk flashed across Michelangelo's

face. "Tea?"

Donatello scrunched his nose. "Coffee."

It was his brother's turn to mock disgust.

"Living room?"

"Living room."


	6. Chapter 6 The Genbu

The pungent aroma of brewing coffee wafted through the loft. The strange family of five sat upon various furnishings constructed to

absorb, nearly consume the occupant. Most cradled cups of steaming tea in their hands. A nervous man sat before them, the object of focus.

He swept long, truent locks of hair from his face in a repetitive, compulsive manner. There was little that could make this large man quake.

He was facing what could.

Donatello was the last to take a seat. A large mug of black coffee billowing steam clutched in his fist, he took a seat by the standing lamp in the

corner of the room. He was careful not to spill a drop of the precious liquid, even as the cushion threatened to swallow him whole, and his body hunched

into itself in shock.

At last, all were present.

The silence continued as the man stroked his long bangs from his forehead once more, unsure of how to start.

"I believe you have something to tell us all, Casey." The soft voice drifted, filling every corner of the room with with it's rich baritone.

"Yeah, well...ok, see..." He sat hunched forwards, elbows resting on his thighs. He let his head drop into his hands, as though organizing his thoughts

into sentences was a mighty and arguous task.

"Perhaps, if you begin with the beginning." The voice was calm, patient.

"Ok, so... The beginning. Right. Well, the beginning, I guess... Ok. 20 years ago, abouts, you know, The Foot, they weren't... you know, dominant around here.

They weren't the Shit, they weren't top dog. Back then it was, you guys ever heard of the Triads?" Casey looked up at the listening faces, searching for some hint

of recognition.

Heads nodded.

"Of course, the Chinese mafia," Leonardo agreed, his head remaining steady, eyes unblinking.

"Yes, well, actually the term 'Triads' really refers to just about all Chinese organized crime syndicates." Donatello supplied a rough outline of the the subject, as he was prone to do,

sipping on his beverage as he rattled off the general tidbits of relevant information. "There are, well, God-knows-how-many chapters all over the world now,

that operate independantly from one another. They've even been known to participate in turf wars with different, feuding Triad chapters. Just because you're in one gang doesn't mean

that you have any allies in another Triad chapter. They really boomed in the 1970s and 80s, the usual, smuggling, gambling, prostitution, money laundering, et cetera. They are widely

represented in pop culture nowadays, mostly video games and movies, glamourizing the lifestyle. The Chinese government, governments world-wide, for that matter, have really

concentrated their energies to limiting their power recently, but I don't know how well they're doing. "

"Yeah, well, the Triads, they were It. Well, one particular chapter here in New York, actually these guys are everywhere; Toronto, Chicago, San Fran, London, Paris..."

"We get it. They're big. Next," Raphael readjusted his arms, crossed predictably across his wids chest, and shifted his shell against the wall. He had opted to stand.

"Well, they were It." Casey was not the least disturbed by the curt interruption, as most conversations between the two resembed somthing more akin to a challenge

of who could speak over whom the most frequently. "And they were growing, I mean, set to take over the fucking world. A ligitimate business racking in millions,

playing the stocks like a harp from hell, prestige, priviledge, friends in high places. I'm talking judges, senators, you name it. Meanwhile, they got their fingers

in the pudding, deep into the streets. They _own _the fucking streets. You walk to the corner store, buy some milk? They about it. Nothing gets by them. Noone

gets in, nooone gets out. Noone _sneezes_..."

"We get it."

This time, he did look up. He locked eyes with his friend. He let his eyes skip over his audience. Michelanglo's ever-wide eyes glistened with interest. Donatello's coffee mug

sat loosely in his hand, his head slighly cocked to the side, a thoughtful expression painted his face. Leonardo sat rigid, straight, face revealing nothing, jaw flexing, as

though he were chewing the new information. The Rat sat, relaxed, centered in the couch, eyes closed, head bowed. Casey wasn't fooled; he knew every

word had been committed to memory instantly, that the old man was even now aware of everyone, every object present in the room.

"So, what happened to them? The Chinese gangs we come across are just, neighbourhood gangs, nothing special," Michelangelo moistened his lips in anticipation.

"Well, from what I've heard, about this time, The Foot are building their own little army, world domination is such a popular sport, and they decide their best odds

are to send their biggest and baddest to 'take care of business'. You know, kind of pave the way. "

"Oroku Saki." It was not a question.

"Bingo. And they decided right, cuz he does take care of Li. Quite savagely, as the legend goes. So, Li, head honcho's out of the picture, leaving behind a daughter,

and a son. Both could-be heirs end up being shipped off to live with their uncle, related through their father, naturally, who runs things for the Chapter over

in Paris. This guy decided he don't want nothing to do with the States, he's busy ruling all of Europe, that don't leave much spare time." His grammer was decaying steadily ,

accent thickening as he got more excited about his tale. "He moves the business hq to London, leaves the streets to divide how they will. The Foot grow, the Corporation,

thats the name on the streets, dies. You know what happens with the Foot from there on, had a front row seat, and all. Meanwhile, the Corp. is thriving overseas, ok?" He

barrelled on, pushing unpleasant recent memories from the minds of his listeners, not wanting to loose the attention. "The Li kids are almost grown, and are testing

the waters of the family business. Sonny Li, heh, is in charge of some seriously Money projects, mostly real estate and building, you know. He's real into the

business side of things, from what I could gather, he's keeps his hands clean, would rather work in stocks and bonds. Now big sissy Li, she's pure street. Cold as ice, made

for this kind of thing, and as ambitious as all of hell. So, about seven months ago Uncle Li decides Europe is passé, and moves shop..." he points both index fingers

towards the floor. "Brings the Li kids, and his own step-kid. This kid, noone has ever seen this boy. All we have is the name; Jules. This boy, ok, think all the top boarding

schools, propriety coming outta his ass! Always been really shrouded, only tales of appearing at this or that charity event, diplomatic ball or what-have-you.

Oh, uh, heh, did I mention that this boy's ma was the involved with one of the biggest and baddest Hiaitian gangs around? Li's got some expansion in mind.

With the reputation of the Corp, and the cred of The Rapture, forget it.

The clouds are gathering, and it's gonna pour."

An uneasy silence settled upon the room.

"Nice story Casey," Leonardo was not impressed. "But you haven't yet covered the the part that involves us, and the Girl in your bed. Oh, I'm sorry," he quickly amended.

"Your and April's bed." His stony gaze bore straight into Casey. Casey, to his credit, although he remoistened his suddenly dry lips, and swept a lock of hair form his face, did not look away.

"I got some friends..."

"What kind of friends?" Each word enunciated.

"Friends with connections." Each word was clipped. "They got an ear in the Corp., it helps me stay on top of things. Helped other people stay on top of things too... at one time." His gaze

started to rise from where he had focused it on the floor. Before his eyes found their target;

"Well, those times are past, aren't they Casey?" Not a question. Casey looked to the straight-backed turtle instead.

"Yeah it is," he snapped. "And the it's falling apart out there!"

"Why now? All of a sudden?" the question from the corner seat was straight forward, to the point, a request for more information.

"It aint all of a sudden," Raphael pushed off the wall slightly. He had been growing steadily more anxious throughout the night. "The streets have been going to shit for the past 18 months.

The gangs are moving, shifting... there's no feeding order out there. The Foot took a stumble losing Oruku Saki, but the're coming up fast, and you add this new element.It's going to get really... volatile."

His tone left no room for question, no room for interpretation.

"The Foot is rebuilding. I guess you would know that they ain't taking you're involvement too lightly. They figure they can take on the Li family, maybe even bed with 'em a bit, but with

the Rapture connection they'd be too much to handle. They'd never have the upper hand, never even have a chance at a fair say. They figure the Corp's only

connection to the Rapture is that kid. Kill the kid, kill the connection. Kill the connection, things suddenly become alot easier."

"And us?"

"You. Well, there are rumours floating around the streets, about the clan who took out the Shredder. A mysterious band of brothers, a ninja clan, who fashion themselves

after the Genbu."

"Genbu?" again a question from the corner. "The constellation? The tortoise god?" Donatello looked genuinely amused, a rare occurance. "Well, I suppose thats fitting.There could

be worse interpretations."

"What is known of the Genbu?" Splinter's eyes opened as he regarded Casey, worry creasing his brow.

"Nothing," Casey shook his head. "Only that they're responsible for taking out the Shredder. Noone heard of them before, and noones heard of them since. Like I said,

they're just rumours."

The old Rat shook his head, weary. Absorbing the information. "And the Girl?"

"Well, it seems that the Foot have an ear in the Corp too, cuz a few nights ago they ambush Li's private car. Apparently the son was supposed to be there, but he wasnt.

All they got was a handful of guards, and this girl, who they nabbed. They were supposed to get the car on it's way to an event, they weren't able to swarm, apparently,

until after it had already made a stop. They knew they were taking their chances. But still, they weren't left empty handed."

"So you used us... to help free a.. what... mafia member? You used my family in some sort of advancing gang war?" Leonardo's voice tremored, broke slightly from the effort

of controlling it. "You sent us to the Foot, onto their territory, for... what? You endanger my family for your... I don't even know why..."

"Leo," Casey's voice was soft, begging, "you of all people. You know. You know what they do, they would use her to draw Li out. Maybe it would work, probably

it wouldn't. You know what they would do to her. To the rest of the world, Li's an up-and-up business man, he doesn't hang around with gangsters, he rubs elbows

with diplomats. Knowing him, or his son, don't put you in the wrong."

"There is honour in helping others, helping those who cannot help themselves, " the phrase, usually brimming with compassion when remarked by the eldest, sounded harsh and unforgiving from the mouth

of the next born.

Leonardo shook his head.

"You endanger my family. I will _not_ allow anyone to endanger my family." he struggled to regain control of his breath, chest heaving. He sat forward, allowing his head

to drop to his chest, a whisper too softly to be heard breezed past his lips.

A warm palm was placed on his lean shoulder, squeezing gently. The old Rat's ears missing nothing.

"My sons are right; there is honour in protecting others. There is also honour in protecting one's own."

A heavy silence descended on the room, blanketing all inhabitants,weighing on the air. Each breath was thick.

"We will help the Girl, for we know no wrong she has committed against those who seek to harm her."

Raphael's arms loosened from his chest, his weight shifted from his right to his left foot. He quickly stilled his movements.

"But let me make one thing very certain, Casey Jones; My family will not be involved in any blood feud on the streets of this city.

This is not our battle. We will not endanger ourselves for these people you speak of." There was no doubt, no uncertainty, no argument.

Casey licked his lips, nervous under the Rat's piercing gaze.

Raphael slid from the room as further discussions of details, and probabilities continued. His feet moved silently over the wooden floor of the hallway as they carried

him past the bedroom door, slighty ajar, towards the bathroom. The light burned brightly against the blackened corridor. Raph squinted, picking up a towel, tossing it onto the puddled floor.

He sopped up the spilled water, now cool, spreading the towel with his foot, and reached to unplug the still-full tub. Shortly after, he returned down the hallway, the surroundings familiar

from frequent visits depsite the darkenss of early morning. He found himself approaching the bedroom door, secured, and yawned, hearing his jaw crack from the force.

He paused. The bedroom door. Closed.

He listened; heard the quiet discussion in the next room, a second pot of coffee brewing, his own breath, his own pulse. Nothing else.

He placed once hand on the handle, the other on the weapon on his belt. He turned the handle, openned the door.

The room stood empty. Tablelamps still lit, the bed fussed. He scanned the room a second time. The clothes that had previously lay at the foot of the bed

were missing, the curtains gaped slightly at the seam. He moved to the window; the jam lay slightly open.

He peeked onto the balcony, past the potted tree he could see the light spilling from behind the drapes of the living room, casting shadows onto the patio set that sat there. He listened;

heard nothing but the sounds of the city.

Then he smelled her.

He was careful to leave the window slightly ajar, just as he was careful to blend into the numerous shadows of the night as he ascended the metal staircase to the rooftop.

He saw her there, slumped against the ventilation shaft, crumpled almost, as if she had deflated of exhaustion.

She had indeed dressed herself in the sweatpants and shirt of April's Casey had provided. Her left arm was clutched gingerly to her body, she had not retied the sling after removing it

to dress. Her hair was damp, blowing slightly in the wind, her feet bare and grimy from the walk. The bright glow of a cigarette hovered in her right hand, between her healthy index finger, and her mangled, and

bandaged middle finger. Her back to the staircase, she stared out over the city.

"You trying to catch a cold, on top of it all?" he spoke from the cover of shadow.

The glowing red tip raised from the ground, glowed brightly against the night sky, then returned to her side. A puff of smoke, carried on the night breeze, assaulted Raph's nostrils.

He could still smell the coconut.

"Did you release me only to kill me yourself?" She turned to face the voice, cringing in obvious pain at the movement, awkward with two useless arms.

"Is there a reason why I would want to kill you?"

She could hear the smirk in the voice.

"Does anybody really need one nowadays? None is as good as any. " Her voice was slurred, the words lazy.

"What's your name?"

"Angely, " her eyes drooped, her long bangs clung to her forehead, damp with sweat.

"You shouldn't be out here. You're sick."

" It's too hot. Wanted to cool.." she left her sentence incomplete, eyes fluttering shut for a moment. She sighed as her eyelids closed, as though the burden of remaining awake

was too great an effort. Raphael imagined that in her condition, it was. He stepped forward, out of shadows, into the soft moonlight of the clear night.

Her eyes sprung open at his movement. He paused, caught in her sight. She breathed slowly, deeply. He made his way to her, movements

slow and measured, deliberate, but predictable. She said nothing, only watched him as he approached and crouched before her. His hand moved to hers, plucking the smoking

stub from her loose grasp and flinging it over the ledge. He said nothing, only watched her, noted every nuance of her face the dark.

Her eyes were wide, dark circles of exhaustion and strain stretched beneath them. A dark bruise crested her left cheekbone. A small cut on her bottom lip had already started

to knit itself together.

She blinked.

"Genbu."

He blinked. He smirked.

"My name is Raphael."

She blinked.

"Don't worry, "he whispered, "I won't tell Casey you went through his drawers and found his smokes. He ain't supposed to have em in the first place, so.."

She blinked.

He could smell the coconut.

Her eyes roamed his face, studying, facinated. "You guys really go all out, huh? "

His brow creased in confusion over her hushed whisper.

He watched her watch him. Watched her eyes travel from his eyes, to his cheeks. He licked his lips when her gaze drifted to his mouth.

He watched her mouth.

Her hand rose to his face. He watched her fingertips sit delicately on his cheek. Heard the breath as it ghosted past her lips, those lips.

Her fingers pressed against his face, testing the texture, the resistance. Her hand crept up to his temple where it sat thoughtfully.

The simple touch elicited a shiver that assaulted his bones, leaked into his core, and vibrated across every inch of his skin.

A curious expression in her eye, she stared into his, seeking him out.

Her brow creased, slightly. Her head cocked a touch to the side. Her lips parted and quivered, delicately.

Her breath rushed out, hitching in her throat.

He felt her retract before her body moved.

She dragged her hand from his face, leaning back. She moved to put space between them, dropping her weakened left arm and pressing her palm into the cement.

She scrambled her feet beneath her, levering her body upwards, supporting her unsteady weight with her resting arm.

Pain rocketed through her shoulder, down her arm, spreading into her body cavity, arresting her lungs for precious moments.

She cried out, and stumbled, landing on her back, sat upon the roof's ledging.

Raphael lunged towards her, arms outstretched, hands grasping.

She scrambled again, legs kicking out in front of her, pushing at the ground.

He knew the exact moment she would fall, back teetered over the edge, unaware of the danger behind her, only the perceived danger before her.

He knew the precise moment he was aware he would not reach her.

He knew the moment she knew.

She knew nothing but exquisite pain, sharp, all-consuming, absolute.


	7. Chapter 7 Angeline

The old Rat sat still as stone. Eyes closed. His nose twitched as it detected a light, wafting scent. Something

pleasant, comfortable. His mind identifies it as tea. A fresh pot. He heard the discussion around him. Surrounding him, but distant.

He was aware, and yet not fully present.

He felt it before he heard it.

He sensed it.

Those few quick moments, were they even seconds, ahead of the others.

The woosh of the air as it parted around some foreign object. The slight gasp, the inhale, the disbelief.

The crash.

The shattering of glass, metal bending, breaking under sudden, great force.

The dull thud of soft flesh against unyeilding concrete.

His eyes snapped open, head turned towards the commotion so close by.

His swift young sons were already identifying the cause. Weapons drawn, muscles taut, minds ready, they moved silently,

quickly to the large windowed wall of the loft. Donatello flicked the switch of the lamp by his side, and lifted the blinds minutely.

"Shit!"

He threw the window coverings aside, hand reaching for the sliding mechanism, pushing the large plate of glass supposedly into itself.

The glass rocked against it's jam at his force, riccocheting back on it's track. Leonardo's firm hand stilled the door. He stepped out onto the

balcony after his hectic brother.

The large mosaic pedestal table was overturned, and lay, rocking slightly, on it's side. Glass, and dirt peppered the ground. Shards of clay pottery,and

scraps of leafy greenery sat heavily in contained areas, as though to compliment, perhaps highlight, the damage.

In the midst of the rubble lay a Girl. The Girl. Writhing. Grasping her shoulder, knees drawn in to her chest, head thrown back, silently screaming in pain.

And above her, almost surrounding her. His brother. Raphael. Standing, straddling her huddled mass. Desperate hands reaching to help her, or calm her,

or merely contain her. Leonardo did not know which. He suspected the latter. He could see, even through the darkness of night, his brother's lips moving

furiously. And though hushed, his urgent words carried through the night to Leonardo like a mantra;

"ShitShitShitShitShitShitShitShitShitShitShitShitShit... Aw fuck."

Raphael allowed Donatello to move him away from the Girl, who remained on the ground, rocking slowly back and forth in the dirt and shards of glass.

Leonardo stepped forward, mindful of the danger, toed a candle from his path, and scooped the damaged creature into his arms.

Michelangelo stepped back from the doorway as his brother approached. Leonardo huddled with the Girl just inside the door. He grasped her tight.

Held her firmly to his body, head pressed into his shoulder, body contained in his arms. He could feel her chest leap and falter. He could feel her ragged

breath on his upper arm as she choked, lungs clenching, throat closing. He could feel her spasm as the pain lanced her body. He could feel the grit

of dirt and glass that clung to her damp skin. It dug into his fingers as his fingers dug into her flesh.

His brothers rushed through the glass doorway, Donatello flinging the door shut. Again, the door crashed into it's jam, springing free. It was Casey's hand

that secured the door. Leonardo took note of his carefully calculated brother's miscalculation of force for the second time that night.

The blinds were replaced. The light restored.

Donatello sat back on his haunches before his brother, eyes dark, brow furrowed.

The Girl quivered in Leonardo's arm, curling in upon her self within his grasp.

The brothers locked eyes. The elder nodded, once, the movement sharp and definite.

"Miss. Please. You don't have to be afraid. We only want to help you."

The Girl's head began to rock back and forth, side to side, eyes clenched shut. Donatello wondered if the refusal was directed towards himself or the pain that he knew had to be ravaging

her body. He decided in all probability, that both were likely.

He began again. "Please, you are hurt, and we can help you, but you have to allow us to help you. Miss..."

"Angeline." Raphael stood behind his brothers, farthest from the Girl. He stood stock still. Only his chest gave any hint of life, swelling and settling, the air rushing from his

nostrils. "She said her name was Angeline. Or something." He licked his lips. He stared at the Girl. Pointedly at her, avoiding the gaze of any of his family.

"Angeline?" Donatello tested the name. Then again. "Angeline."

The Girl rocked. Tears began to force their way past her clenched lids, threatening her cheek.

"Angie." Michelangelo reached a hand to Donatello's shoulder, levering himself closer. "Angie. Hey Angie. C'mon, Ang. It's ok. Angie?" With every gentle coo

he advanced, arriving before her blind face, quieting himself to a whisper. "Angie. Angie?" His large fingers brushed against her cheek, wiping tears that had not

yet spilled.

Her eyes relaxed at his touch. He continued his gentle murmur, and soft touch until he was rewarded with the Girl's open face turned towards him.

He quieted as her eyes opened. He stared into the black depths of her eyes, watched the emotions war in her eyes.

Fear. Pain. Confusion.

And something new. Something different.

Her bottom lip dropped slightly.

His brow leapt in question.

Her eyes skimmed his cheeks briefly then settled in his wide-open eyes.

She licked her lips. "You're..." the one word was hoarse, and deep. "Different."

"Angeline?" Donatello shuffled closer, daring to place a hand on her resting knee to draw her attention. She shifted her head as he came into view.

Her brow rose again. "Three."

"Pardon me?"

"Four." The singular word rumbled in Leonardo's chest, vibrating through the girl.

She drew her tongue across her bloodied bottom lip. "Four". It was said with finality, purpose. "Genbu."

Donatello smirked despite himself. "My name is Donatello," he clapped a hand on his brother's shoulder. "This is Michelangelo. Leonardo

is behind you, and-"

"And you've already met Raphael." The words rumbled from Leonardo's chest, once more spreading, vibrating throughout the wounded, delicate body cavity of the Girl.

"Angeline, you're safe with us," Donatello began anew, now with the Girl's attention. "But you had a nasty fall. I need to make sure you're really alright."

"No!" She jerked, battling to sit, desperate to move on her own despite the obvious pain that left her nearly debilatated.

Leonardo easily contained her, tightening his uncompromising arms around her form.

Angeline quickly stopped thrashing, her jaw set against the wave of nausea that swept through her, eyes shut. Through the haze, she felt firm, and gentle hands on her limbs,

she heard a voice in the distance dictating a list. 'That quiet, solid voice. Genbu Donatello'. She opened her eyes when she felt a cool, damp cloth pressed against her right jaw.

The acidic concoction stung as it saturated her torn skin. She hissed, and Donatello glimpsed up from her hand. His mouth pressed together in an awkward smile, his eyes shone with

apology. "I know it stings, but there was alot of dirt, and you don't want an infection. Hows it going, Mike?"

The second Genbu was huddled at her feet, pressing a stained rag to the sole of her right foot. He released his hold on her limb, peeked behind the cloth. His lips pulled back,

revealing a great set of large teeth. "I can't get it to stop, Donnie." He pressed the cloth into place, looking up to his brother, and, catching the Girl's eye, smiled. "It'll be ok."

Donatello inspected the foot. "Mike, I need more bandages. We're going to have to wrap it until we get home. It may need stitches. And get the sling too." He called

to his brother's quickly exiting shell.

"Don, about that.." Leonardo had sat quietly throughout the process, acting as a restraint for the Girl when needed. Acting as a support for the Girl when needed. Speaking only

when needed. Now, he gestured with a nod to the Girl's shoulder cradled against his hard belly. Donatello shifted his poistion until he was able to view the area in question.

The arm lay at her side, limp.

"Aw, Jes-" He moved to better examine the damage, Leonardo shifting to sit directly behind the Girl. He felt along the joint, fingers prodding abused flesh, tracing the bone.

He spared a look to her face. Her head lay slouched against Leonardo's shoulder, eyes fluttering. Her once ragged, frantic breathing had slowed, and evened. Her hands lay

open at her sides, loose. Her lips, no longer pursed in discomfort, now sat slack, a gentle, natural gap between the top and bottom lip. The adreneline that had flooded

her veins now left her limp, exhausted. Donatello felt the flush of her skin against his busy hands. The fever, momentarily disregarded, flaring within her core.

His fingers edged along the outline of the bones. He glanced up at her face again, half obstructed by her mass of hair, head lolled to the side, supported by Leonardo's

ever-present shoulder. Her eyes rested closed. He gripped her upper arm securely in his free hand, fingertips dancing over the unnatural outline of her joint. A quick nod

to his brother, then a solid push. The bone slid back into it's cradle. The Girl's eyelashes fluttered against her cheek. Donatello pressed the injured left arm to her chest and

secured it there with the makeshift sling that had been deposited by his knee. He pressed his palms to the side of her neck. The skin was clammy, moist to the touch.

Heat rolled off her. He glanced at her face, now slack with exhaustion, her cheeks flushed with blood.

"God, she's burning up." Donatello bit the inside of her cheek.

"Yes," was his brother's only reply. Leonardo had noted the steady rise of her body temperature as he clung to her. His hands, once gritty, now slipped where he

gripped flesh. His arms slackened slightly, loosening as she slept. He felt her chest beneath his forearms, her bruised ribs expanding and deflating with each breath,

the movement slow, steady, constant, but...

"Her breathings shallow."

"Mmhm." Donatello had busied himself securing the many bandages, he re-tied the cloth at her sole, knotting it tightly along the roof of her foot. He shook his head, looked

to his brother, and in answer to the raised brow; "Stiches." He turned, pivoted on his haunches to face his father. He noted that the others had left, the four of them

now alone in the open room.

Splinter sat, unmoved, on the couch, tea presented before him. Her shrewd eyes were fastened on the girl in Leonardo's arms. His ears cocked at an angle.

"Sensei, if your decision stands, we need to get her home. If not a hospital."

The old rat took in a great, slow breath. His eyes slid shut. his ears flattened atop his head. His breath paused within him before he allowed it to hiss out through

his sharp teeth. His ears perked and his eyes openned. There was no doubt in his expression. There was no worry or unease. He was steady and sure.

"Leonardo, gather your brothers. And if Casey would be so kind as to prepare a collection of necessities for the Girl. Donatello, prepare the child, the travel will not

be easy on her in this state."

Splinter stood as his eldest deposited the sleeping Girl before him. His old, weathered hand fell onto Leonardo's shoulder. A single squeeze of the hand, a sollitary

nod of the chin passed between the two as Leonardo departed for the bedroom. The rat stood at Donatello's back watching his clever son's deft hands pass over bandages,

splints, bruises. His eyes covered the Girl, studied her, noting the particulars of this strange and mysterious human.

"This girl is quite well cared for."

"Mm? Why do you say that, Sensei?" His hands stilled.

"Her body, though beaten and under-nourished, is strong, her skin is taut, resiliant to the touch, free of callouses save the bottoms of her feet, free of scars. Her hair is full

and healthy and well cared for. Her teeth are straight and white and full. And the nails on her hand on her feet and her hands are painted. Surely you have noticed?"

"I, uh.. ahem." He looked down at his still hands resting on her warm, firm forearm. His fingers twitched, on their own accord, olive against bronze. "Yes, she seems very healthy,

excpet for this.. Fits in with what Casey was saying about Diplomats and Debutantes."

Leonardo padded silently down the hall. The bedroom door stood ajar, soft light eminating from inside. The fine wood moved easily as he pushed it aside and

stepped across the threshold.

"Casey, " the man was seated on the edge of the bed, hands cradling his bowed head. "Splinter would appreciate your help in putting together an overnight bag for 

Angeline. Just any necessities she may require that we wouldn't have down at the lair. We'll be leaving quite shortly." The man nodded into his palms before rising quickly

to his feet and heading to the closet. He pulled a green canvas backpack from the top shelf and began rummaging through the drawers, shoving this and that into the battered

sac hastily. He openned the top right drawer of the armoir, thrusting his hand in, shuffling through it's contents. Ends of lace and silk spilled out the sides of the basin.

Leonardo looked to the floor. His stomach clenched. He looked up to the mussed, empty bed. It's existence, like that of the ends of lace, held promise. He stood just

inside the room. He could hear the satin objects as they slid against one another inside the drawer. He could feel the breath of his brother, who stood quietly (always so

quiet recently, something he had once believed was an impossiblilty for his youngest brother) to the side. He could smell the fear roll off Casey. It sat, thick, in the back

of his throat. He could taste it on the back of his tongue. The raw animal reaction called to him, or rather the animal within him. The animal contained within him. Tamed.

Trapped. All but dead. And yet, this base reaction, beyond reason, logic. A primal call that drummed in his core. He looked at the mussed bed. The drawer slammed shut.

Leonardo looked to the floor.

"Case, do you need a hand with anything, or something?" The question was quiet.

"Uh, nah. Nah, I think I got it. Or actually, yeah, her laundry, the drier should be done. Grab it and I'll just shove it in here."

Michelangelo shouldered past his brother, shell scraping against the doorframe.

Casey pulled his hand, full of black fabric, out of another drawer, dropping it in the pack. He shouldered past Leonardo.

"Casey, where is Raphael?"

"Um, I think he's up on the roof." The answer came from half way down the hall. Casey disappeared into the bathroom.

Leonardo stood silent, unmoving for a moment. Behind him, he heard the clank and clatter of plastic bottles, the return of Michelangelo, a muffled 'Thanks, man'.

From the living room he heard soft, calm voices. Through the open window ahead of him the distant hum of city life beckoned. Raphael was on the roof.

He had been asked to gather his brothers for departure, yet...

His heart beat heavy in his armoured chest. A primal rhythm demanding satisfaction. A physical relief of any sort.

"Michelaneglo, tell Raph we're leaving."

Leonardo looked to the armoir, an impressive piece of woodwork, the dark cherry shining in the lamp light. Bits of lace fell sloppily from one of the top drawers.

He left the room.

Splinter and Donatello stood, readied, in the high-ceilinged room, the girl already huddled in the large turtle's arms. The old rat had dressed himself

in the warm robe he wore for travel, the hood resting on his back. Leonardo nodded upon entering the room, bowing slightly. The rat regaded him a moment,

ears twitching, then, satisfied, returned the greeting. Michelangelo strode in from the hall, clutching a battered green canvas backpack, filled to capacity, latches

straining against the contents.

"Raphs up top. Are we 'Go'?" he swung the pack roughly over his shoulder, hooking his arm through the strap, letting it fall with a slight thud against his shell.

"Yes, Michelangelo."

"Donnie, do you need a break? I can take her til we get 'Sub'. if you like, " Leonardo noted his brother's grip, how it tightened momentarily at the offer.

"No. Thanks, I'm good. Maybe in the tunnels." Donatello followed his father onto the balcony. Mindful of the glass and de-potted greenery, and overturned

table he made his way to the stairway that allowed exclusive access to the rooftop.

"Mike," Casey laid a rough hand on his friend's forearm, halting his exit. "You'll call when she wakes up?"

"Yeah, Dude. No prob." Michelangelo offered a sad smirk, a twist of the side of his mouth, a pat on the hand. He shuffled the weight of the bag

on his shoulders as he stepped over the fallen patio furniture. Leonardo listened to his brother's footsteps crunch over the store bought topsoil.

"You're gonna miss your train there, Leo."

"Casey. I'm going to give you one last chance, because you are a friend. You are a trusted friend of my family, of my brothers, you're engaged to April.

You've earned the title of 'friend'. So, I'm giving you this chance right now to tell me, under your own will; what have you gotten us into? What have you

involved my family in? Who's business is this?.. Who is she?"

Silence stretched between the two. The clock on the kitchen wall ticked with exaggerated volume.

That stench of fear poured off of Casey Jones, sticking in Leonardo's throat.

Finally, the Man shrugged, his shoulders heavy with cloaked burden.

"It's not my story to tell."

Leonardo shook his head at the incomplete answer.

Then, he squared his shoulders and foollowed his family onto the gaping darkenss of night.


	8. Chapter 8 Waking

Leonardo inhaled deeply, pulling the scented air into his nostrils, filling his waiting lungs.

His ribcage expanded, his stomach grew, the breath pushing deep in his belly. He held the air within him, floated in the void,

revelled in the rare moment of nothingness. Stillness. Emptiness. His lungs deflated, breath pushing through his nose, recirculating

into the small room. The emptiness faded, it filled. The pungent musk of the burning stick before him. The plush support of the cushion

beneath his thighs. The muffled noises of life eminating from behind his closed door. The sounds of his brothers; a laugh track on the

television, the soft click of a computer keyboard, the impact of fist against a worn heavy bag, the crunch and slurp, even, of a late night

snack. The sounds of his family. He focused on his own self, the rhythmic, steady beat of his heart within him, the soft throb of his pulse

in his ears, his neck. The whistle of his breath, calm, soothing, almost silent. In. Pause. Out. Pause. In. Nothingness. Out. Emptiness.

He floated in the void.

A rustle jolted him. His eyelids peeled back. He looked at the source. His bed. It sat along the far wall of his simple room, unadorned,

low to the ground, currently blanketed in jumping shadows provided by the lit candles that sat by his knee. The impatient flames spat and

flickered, casting new and exotic shapes into the pressing darkness. Leonardo stared at the fire, studied the dance of the candles' tips, his

brow furrowed as they leapt and stretched. The restless flames ducked and weaved in a phantom breeze, unable or unwilling to calm themselves.

Slowly, the corner of Leonardo's mouth pulled up, a wicked smirk spread itself across his face. Exhaustion pulled at his eyes.

"You and me both."

The flames danced, celebrating his words.

Again, a rustle from the far wall. The bedding rose and settled. A sigh escaped his lips as Leonardo stood. He feet scooped beneath him as

his powerful legs lifted his weight in a smooth familiar movement. He walked to the bed, shaking his thighs between each step, loosening

the stiff joints, encouraging blood to flow to the meat of his legs. He stopped at the bedside, staring down at it's contents.

The Girl.

She had been deposited in his room soon after her arrival in their home. Donatello had completed tending to her injuries, had properly bandaged

and cleansed and sewn her wounds. Splinter had requested she occupy Leonardo's room for the time being, until she woke, until she was sound.

No one had objected. Leonardo had suspected he was not the only one of his brothers to swallow his words. He had watched Donatello chew on the

inside of his cheek as he propped the pillow under her head. He had noted the patience his brother had exhibited as he pulled the blanket around her weakened

body; those hands that were always so nimble, quick and agile, always occupied, always working, they smoothed the creases out of the worn linens so

very carefully. Now, Leonardo stood looming over the Girl as she battled in her fitfull sleep. The carefully arranged covers lay creased and bundled

across her, haphazard, where an uncaring arm or leg had blindly flung them. Her brow furrowed, and he watched beads of sweat form and slide

down her anguished face. The pillowcase beneath her was thoroughly damp, from her own fluids aswell as the dripping, cool washcloth Donatello and

Michelangelo would rountinely deposit on her forehead in a vain effort to calm the raging fire in her core. Her breath was fast, hard, raggid. She

panted through her open mouth, her body exhausting itself in it's desperate quest to rebuild. He watched her chest heave, barely filling to

capacity before it collapsed, losing it's precious content. Leonardo knelt before the struggling girl. Her face twitched, lips pursing, eyelids flinching.

Her face shone in the candlelight. Her skin glowed bronze, luminescent. He watched a bead travel from her hairline to her eyebrow, down the slope

of her nose, over a flushed cheek, to rest in the cupid's bow of her top lip. His nostrils flared. Leonardo was acutely aware of his own pulse throbbing

within his veins. He felt it thrum in his arms, felt it pool in his stomach, heard it pound in his ears. A harsh green hand sprung to the bedside table

finding the waiting bowl of water, and inside it, the drenched washcloth. He collected it in his palm, pressing the excess water from it, letting it drain

between his fingers. He wrapped his forefinger in the damp cloth, and moved it to her face. He dabbed at the cupid's bow of her top lip. The cloth was

drawn over her flushed cheeks, over her slick neck, over her hidden ear, finally resting on her forehead.

A creak in the hall, a hesitant step.

"It's ok, Mike. You can come in." He heard the shuffling footsteps, they stopped just inside his door.

"We weren't sure if you were meditating or what, but it's been a while since we checked on her." The voice remained at the door.

"Don was just in here not too long ago with his checklist."

"That was just over an hour ago," Michelangelo approached the bed. "Guess you were out of it, huh, bro?" A heavy hand landed on the crouched turtle's shell.

"How's she looking?"

"The same."

"Hmmhm."

"Raphael is done his.. de-briefing with Sensei, I assume." It was a statement.

"Yeah, a while ago. They didn't take long."

"Mmm."

"Come on, Leo. We both know Raph didn't push her. It was just an accident." The words rushed out of Michelangelo, riding the same breath as the heavy sigh that

followed.

Leonardo's chin clicked repeatedly as he clenched his jaw, pressing the top line of his teeth forcefully, harshly into the bottom. His hand still rested on the wet washcloth on

Angeline's forehead.

"Have you woken her?"

Leonardo shook his head. The gesture was stiff and jolting. His hand moved to the Girl's right shoulder. He jostled her. "Wake up." She murmured and stirred, but

her eyes remained closed. He tried again. Jostle, then "Wake up."

A harsh sigh rushed forth from his younger brother. He looked over his shoulder to see a piteous expression staring back at him. His brother stood, one hand on his hip,

head shaking lightly back and forth, a small sad smile, a smirk really, eyeridges raised in question. It was a look for a mistaken and over-indulged child.

"Leo, Leo, Leo. You can't just shake her and say 'wake up'"

"What?"

"You have to be charming." He pinched his fingers together, hand upwards to emphasize each distinct word.

"Charming. To wake her up you have to be... She wont wake up unless you're charming, is that what you're saying?" Leonardo's flat tone mirrored his skeptical expression.

"Try being cool. Smooth.." Inspiration hit, his eyeridges shooting upwards, eyes lighting. "Suave. Psh," a scoff, "step aside and let a real turtle handle this." Michelangelo's hand batted

lightly, quickly, impatiently at his brother's. Leonardo moved to crouch at the foot of the bed as Michelangelo came to crouch by the Girl setting a cup of water

down on the nightstand, nestled between a battered wind-up, glow-in-the-dark clock, and the bowl of water. He removed the cloth from her forehead and used it to

wipe away any remaining moisture from her face. Satisfied, he set it back in the bowl, sloshing some of it's contents onto the already damaged wood. His hand brushed

some damp hair from her face.

"Angie, Annngie, when will those clouds all disappear? Angie,Anngie, where will it lead us from here? With no loving in our souls, and no money in our coats, you can't

say we're satisfied. Angie, Angie, you can't say we never tried. Oh Angie, don't you weep, all your kisses still taste sweet. I hate that sadness in your eyes. But Angie,

I still love you, baby, everywhere look I see your eyes." He grew quiet as Angeline's eyelids fluttered on her cheek.

"Angie, you're beautiful, ain't it time we said g..Hey there!" Her large black eyes stared, glassy, into his face. His large thumb rubbed her left cheek, wiping at nothing,

simply comforting. "How do you feel?"

She blinked furiously, trying to clear her fever-fogged mind.

"Do you recognize me, remember my name? Come on, I know you do." He turned, displaying his cheek, "In profile." He turned back, waving his hands in front of his face.

Then finally, he revealed the oh-so obvious answer. "I'm the cute one! Mike! Aw man, I told Donnie he shouldn't wake you with his ugly mug of his, it shocks all the memory

right out of you. It frightening, I know. Terrifying really. And you ain't even seen him in the mornings! "

She blinked slowly. He offered a large, lop-sided smile. She blinked again.

"Genbu Michelangelo." The words were hoarse and quiet, barely above a whisper. They caused an open-mouthed grin to spread across the turtle's face.

"See, you do remember! Ha, I told Donnie that I was more cute than the fever was..hot?!" He scrunched up his snout having confused himself. "Thirsty?"

His hand swept beneath her neck, lifting her head. The muscles of his arm bunched and contracted, easily holding the weight as he brought the cup of cool water

to her eager mouth. The cup sat at her lips and Michelangelo tipped the contents delicately into her waiting mouth. Angeline drank greedily. As voraciously as

her parched and split lip would allow, swallowing all that her dry, raw throat could handle.

"Hey, uh, Leo. Could you grab a pillow off the couch? This ones soaked. Ok, easy there. Not too much."

Leonardo rose from his knees, sliding the pillow from beneath the Girl's raised head. He squeezed his hand in discomfort, testing the damp, plush object.

Michelangelo gently eased the cup from her mouth. "Not too much. It'll like, shock your system or something. There." He laid her head down on the mattress,

placing the cup on the nightstand. "Better?"

The Girl sighed, gasping slightly, tongue working to collect any missed moisture form her lips. He watched as those lips that had so eagerly worked the

water into her mouth now stilled. She stared up at him, eyes glassy. After a while; "'Kay, well you can rest again, and I'll be back in an hour, ok?"

He moved to stand. He stopped as he felt something upon his wrist. Her hand. He stared at the damaged fingers, flanked by metal supports, strapped

tightly by medical tape, on his skin. The fingers that could curled around his arm.

"Stay?"

He crouched back down, his eyes worried. "Hey, it's alright. My brother will be back any second. Leo, you know him. You wont be alone."

"No, not the other one." Her eyes rested closed, the effort of speech obviously draining.

"Ok, yeah. Of course I'll stay, babe. Close your eyes, thats it. Just rest. I wont go anywhere." Michelangelo sat on the floor, hand on her left shoulder, resting

his cheek on the edge of the futon. He heard his brother's silent footsteps outside the door.

"Here you go, Mike."

He arranged the pillow under Her head, collecting her hair on one side, then repositioned himself on the floor.

"Everything set here?"

"Yeah. I'm just going to hand around. You know, keep her company."

Leonardo looked to Angeline. Her face was calm, blank, already asleep.

"I don't think thats necessary. And Raphs about to unplug that game you've got on hold out there." His thumb hitched over his shoulder, in the general

direction of the living area.

"Yeah, thats ok. I've hit a save point." Mike nestled his cheek against the futon.

"Fine. I'll be in the dojo, if you need me."

Leonardo strode through the living room, glancing at the television as he passed. The screen was frozen in time, the only movement the large flashing

'PAUSE' in neon orange. Music blared from the set. A repetative, inane concoction consisting of no more than six notes.

He moved forward towards the training room, the dojo.

His brother had moved on from the heavy bag that hung across the hall. Raphael now sat in the near corner of the room. He sat on the long padded

bench that accompanied a varied collection off free weights. He hunched slightly, elbow on knee, pulling the heavy metal to his face, a look of

savage satisfaction gleaming in his eye with every successful repetition. Sweat glistened on his skin, reflecting silver and gold, highlighting his well-tended

contours. The moisture peppered his skin, coated the surface, and ran in rivulets between the bunching muscles. He channeled his breath in through

his nostrils, out through his mouth with each curl.

"Mikes done with his game, if you want the t.v."

"Nah, just that damned... music. He's got the fucking... volume up full blast." The words pressed out between reps.

"Oh," he turned to leave. He stopped at the voice behind him.

"You working your katas?"

Leo turned to see Raph watching him from over his shoulder, weight still in hand. Sweat dripped freely down his face, off the end of his beak. His swatch

of fabric hung loosely around his neck, blood red where the sweat had soaked it.

"I was going to."

Raph dropped the weight, stopping it's bounce with the pad of his foot. "I'm done cardio. Just finishing up here." He stood, moving to the assortment of

weights lined against the wall. Making his selection, he checked his spacing. He placed the weights on the floor, standing above them. Squatting with a

straight back, he picked up the weights, one in each hand, bringing them to rest before his abdomin. With a grunt, he splayed his arms, lifting them up and outwards,

until he stood, arms extended to the sides, shoulders pinched back. Slowly, he lowered his arms to their starting position, controlling the fall of the weights.

He breathed deeply, in through the mouth, then repeated the action, breath shooting from the mouth, grunting deep in his throat.

Leonardo stood at the doorway, watching his brother's back; watching the bunch and strain of the collection of muscles between his shoulder blades, and the

taut tension of his arms with each lift. Padding softly into the centre of the room, Leonardo breathed deep into his belly and began basic movements, simple

and familiar forms to awaken his body.

Raphael paused, arms rested, head bowed. He heard soft footsteps. Behind him, the air parted over smooth movements. He felt the sweat drip down his neck,

down his shoulders. He grunted as he felt his muscles burn, object to his continued practise. He let the burn spread, let it wash through him. He held the weight

a moment too long. Just a moment. Just enough to feel it, really feel the pain. He lowered the weights, let them drop to the floor. His head fell forward in

exhaustion. He licked his lips. A smile slid across his face.


	9. Chapter 9 Anatomy of A Home

The lashes flickered upon her cheek. The darkeness parted, paled. A soft light beckoned, mellowing the surrounding din

of the empty room. She lay still, feeling the weight of her body in the tangled covers, breathing steadily, consciously. Her eyes blinked

rapidly, sporadic movements. She curled her fingers into her palm, her left hand, felt the fingertips scrape against her exposed clavical.

She curled her fingers into her palm, her right hand, felt the unyielding metal that hugged her two inner digits scrape against her clothed

leg. She curled her toes, gripping the bottom sheet. Pain, sharp and instant, lanced through her right foot, spreading like a lit fuse up her

calf, deep in the muscle of the leg. Her harsh gasp hung think in the air before being swallowed by the consuming shadows. The fire

jumped to her side, attacking her right lung, choking the air from her withered body, demanding the slow, measured breathing pattern of

her sleep. She took in small gasps of air, filling her lungs only briefly. As the pain that cleaved her side abated, she moved her limbs,

gingerly. Legs; muscles screamed in protest. Arms; one securely strapped across her chest, shoulder tender when moved. She moved

her neck, carefully, slowly, grateful for the stiff movement. She paused as her vision faded slightly at the shift. Equilibrium regained, she

moved to sit, then, in time, to stand, right hand clutching the bedside table as best it could.

The bare room was dark, lit only by unseen, external forces. The only door stood ajar allowing the blessed light to leech into the

gloom. Eyes now adjusted to the dim, vision steady after the jarring movement, she glanced around the room, memorizing, studying the

strange surroundings. The room, as it was, was not indeed bare. Minimal, yes, but subtly personal. The bed stood at the far wall of the room,

directly in sight of the lone door. A well-worn wooden bedside table stood beside it, housing a clock, a bowl of water with washcloth, and on the

shelf below, a small stack of neatly arranged books. At the foot of the bed, a few short steps away, was a low-set table, on it's top,a closed

notebook. A series of capped pens lay, lined up at attention, at the notebook's head. On the wall above, a rather ornate sword display, hand-carved

from dark wood, it shone in the reflected light, obviously much-loved, well-tended. Kitty corner to the bed, hidden behind the door, were pillows, rather

large, rather plush despite their wear, piled, no, arranged, and particularly so. And in front of them, a small tray that carried an array of candles and

insense and small, almost canopic-like jars. Sitting by the doorjam, a green canvas sac, seemingly forgotten, and painfully out of place. The room,

though small, was beloved. It was clean and organized. Someone's haven.

Her hand left the tabletop. Her head pounded, blood thundered through her ears, her side screamed and her legs protested with the slightest

of movement. Her vision and equilibrium, however, remained constant. Encouraged despite the constant and obvious discomfort, she made the few

steps to the door. She rested by the jam, toeing the canvas bag. It was full to busting, the teeth of the clamps holding desperately. Breathing shallow,

willing her vision clear, she listened beyond the room. Distant, muffled sounds drifted down the corridor to her, their meanings unclear.

She walked through the door to be met by a long, lit hallway. Doors lined the right side, at the far end, stairs, and beyond, a vague, cavernous area.

Her right hand pressed against the wall as she walked, each step uneven, every muscle protesting. She at last stopped at the first door on her path.

The door lay ajar. Inside she found a room not entirely different from the one she had departed. The bed in this room lay open, un-made, sheets crumpled

and thrown at it's end, one pillow having fallen to the floor. The room, though not entirely unpleasant, held areas of controlled mayhem; papers, magazines,

books stacked on the floor, organized, surely, in some fashion, as some stacks were more abundant than others at their sides. An occasional cup or bowl

could be found atop certain columns. They rose, like climbing vines from the floor. Along one wall, a tall bookcase leaned, swelling with contents. A necessary

and apparently over-worked desk sat along the wall farthest from the bed.

She gripped the doorjam, and continued along the hall. The next door she came upon stood open to reveal a bathroom. She peered into the small room, memorizing;

the cups that sat on the ledge of the sink, the bristled heads of toothbrushes poking out the top; the towel that hung out of the basin; its mis-matched cousin

that lay crumpled on the floor, overlapping the still-damp bath mat. The shower curtain hung open, an array of soaps, each in their own dish, in a standing

shelf that seemed built into the corner of the stall. A yellow duck sat on one of the shelves, head down, tail feathers in the air, having lost it's footing. The lights above

the mirrored cabinet shone. She stepped into the small room, feeling the cool puddles beneath her left foot as she moved the short distance to the sink. Her right hand

fell to the wet porcelain lip of the basin. Her left curled at the curve of her neck. They seemed polar to her; the left seemingly unaffected while the right lay maimed, swathed

in metal. It seemed unlikely, improper, that they should belong to the same person.

Healthy. Strong. Capable. Crippled. Broken. Torn.

She met her eyes in the mirror. The image glared at her. Taunted her. Scorned her with dead eyes, ashen skin, bruised features. She watched her pink tongue snake from

between her lips to touch the tear that lined her bottom lip. She tasted metallic.

She made her way along the hall.

The next door was closed. Firmly. Surely. She moved her broken hand over the door's face as she passed. The jam itself was scarred, had been repaired, ripped free, and

repaired numerous times. Her fingers traced the relief of the indents that pocked the wood.

The last door in the hall stood open like the rest. Inside was a bedroom, similar to the others in layout. The walls of this room, however, were plastered with

posters. Sirens stared out from their perches. She assumed this room also housed a bookshelf and desk in addition to the bed she was able to make out, but was

unable to peer past the absolute clutter of the room to the objects themselves. Small books, magazines, various objects of brightly coloured plastic filled the small

space almost beyond capacity. She glanced at her feet, in line with the doorway, and marvelled at the exact line before her bare toes, as though there existed

a mystical border that contained the chaos in this one space.

Two flights. The stairs were wide. Abnormally so. Handrails graced both sides, atop the banister on the outer edge, and built into the stone wall on the inner.

The stone was cool, almost cold against her cheek and forehead. She welcomed the calloused touch. She felt entirely too warm in the oversized clothes. She reached

a hand briefly to the gaping neck of the sweater. She leaned her body heavily on the wall, hand grasping the railing. She slowly crept down the stairs, pausing

often. Her thighs burned, quivering with the effort, her left more-so, taking more of her weight as she lifted her right foot as often as possible, trading the sharp

searing pain that furrowed up from her foot for the all-consuming torment that clawed at her every muscle. She took her time. Finally, her foot gripped the floor.

The sounds, various voices, movement, were closer, louder. Slightly clearer, but still ambiguous. They eminated from _there_. A room off of the one

in which she now stood. A glance in the obvious direction, through an archway, offered only a stone wall. The room in which she currently stood was, in fact,

a rather large living room. It was a vast, open area defined only by the furniture in it's midst. A long couch sat near the centre. It faced a low coffee table laden with

bowls, cups, utensils, baggies and wappers, books, magazines, remote controls. Behind the table, facing the couch, stood a large and ominous appliance that

seemed to loom over the simple, common furniture. A television. Two mis-matched chairs completed the set, one flanking each end of the coffee table. Small

end tables, lamps, standing and tabletop, peppered the space. Behind her stood the kitchen, a space once again defined not by walls or partitions, but by

the furniture and appliances that occupied the area. Beyond that, a short hallway led to a darkened corner. She moved through the area, dragging her

gnarled hand over surfaces, touching, feeling, testing various textures she came across. Testing the validity of this world she seemed to have awakened

in. Fogged, clouded images sat in her mind's eye. Murky ideas, circumstances, persons gnawed at her. The fever had tainted her mind, drugged her, leaving her

reeling now, unsure. Dreams of ninja and Genbu, escape and care tickled her senses. This place, the people of those rooms and the sounds she now approached

were not the unrelenting and exact cruelty she had last known. This place, a home, held no fear within it's bowels. This was not a place of anger, retribution, hatred.

Instead, the cold stone walls seemed to hold peace, normalcy, even.

Her fingers felt along the rough stone, wrapping around the lip of the doorway carved within it. The room was large, cave-like, simillar to the previous. Massive.

In it's centre stood five figures. Four hulking forms moved, their gestures fluid, lyrical, as though performing a dance, each part choreographed to compliment

the others. In the thick stood a lone figure, smaller in stature, the authortiy indisputable. The sounds were now evident. A command, short and definate from the

stooped central figure. A response from the rest. An adaption of their movements. Fluid, lyrical, each in counterpoint to the remaining, and yet, subtly new.

The four breathed hard, grunting in exertion, each pushing their voice from their throats, using the energy to complete their task, to regulate their movements.

These were the sounds.

The one turned, seemed to - regard?- her.

A small sound caught in her throat, more a symptom of her mental discomfort that now gripped her than the physical, which she harboured with little complaint.

The remaining four ceased their constant movements. Her mind warred to compute the vision. Fever-polluted dreams mingled with the present, leaving her

breathless, confused, unsure. The layered sound of breathing echoed within the confines of the great room. Those of the warriors. Those of the girl.

Then, from the one closest:

"Hi!" His face seemed to snap to life as if suddenly awakened, his manner polar to the concentrated movements prior.

"Ang, you're awake! How ya feel?" A large clumsy grin accompanied his wide questioning eyes.

Her mouth fell a fraction, breath passed her lips.

"Michelangelo." The gruff voice held no anger. Simply a beckoning.

"What?" The closest turned, genuine curiousity lining his face.

"Mike, she may not remember anything that happened during her fever." The figure far from the door offered an apologetic, almost embarrased smile in return

to attention from the girl. He raised a large, awkward paw. "Hi?"

"So..."

A pointed stare.

"Ooohhhh..." Michelangelo turned once more to the girl, slowly, eyeing her - what was that expression now?- warily.

The central figure, gripping a wooden stick in one of his hands, made his way to the door. He stopped, an arms length from the girl who stood, injured

hand still gripping the archway.

"My child," he spoke only after meeting her eyes. "How do you feel?" His dark eyes bore into hers.

She felt her lips move, tasting his words. "I'm... a little thirsty.?.."

"Donatello," The embarrassed one made his way to the archway. She heard him scrape against the stone as he crept through the wide arch. The strange being's

movements sounded behind her in the kitchen.

"You have been resting for a long while, child. We have been awaiting your return."

Her face belied a multitude of emotions; her brow creased with worry, her eyes wide with questions, her lips hesitant and unsure. "I'm sorry."

The corner of the - man's - lip twitched, pulled up. A fine line of white teeth glinted in the light. " Do not think on it. Though , now you have awaken,

and you have much to tell us, " he leaned in conspiratorially, "and you, aswell, have much to learn."

"I think, perhaps - I need to sit down," Her knees quivered and she began to sink to the floor, archway at her back.

Strong arms gripped her and guided her to the floor, bracing her between unrelenting strength, one arm at her back, the other curled under her knee.

She glanced up into wide blue eyes. Her eyes moved from his face to the others, still motionless in the room. They stood silent, unyielding. Visions clouded and cleared,

mingled and parted before her eyes. Sounds echoed in the recesses of her mind. A cup was presented to her, placed to her lips. Mindlessly she took a sip, then rested

her head against the creature that held her. She gazed at the side of It's face. Fever-induced dreams swam at her. She stared at It's cheek, and remembered- _them._

She raised her left hand, pulled against it's restraint enough to to graze her fingertips across his skin, across his freckles. He turned his head to her at the light contact.

His skin was cool, yet flushed, smooth and moist to the touch.

"Uh, yeah, sorry about that. Mid training sesh and all. I suppose I'm a little ripe."

She pulled her hand from his cheek. Her fingertips glistened. She could see It's pores, feel the relative warmth of the moisture on her hand. And that face. Such an expressive

face. The eyes, the mouth. She watched even as his nostrils flared.

"Yeah. Just be glad Raph wasn't closer, cuz he is, like, the all-time Funk Master, and I don't mean old school!" The skin on his snout scrunched.

She brought her dampened fingers to her lips and tasted salt.

The old rat watched the interaction, patient with the Girl's questioning, uncertain nature.

"Michelangelo, if you would assist her travels to my chambers-"

A quick nod, a quiet 'yep'. He stood promptly, unemcumbered by the burden in his grasp.

"- Leonardo, you will oversee this morning's activities until I return - "

"Hai, Sensei." The statue in the farthest corner of the room bowed deeply, formally, at the waist, straightening once again into his rigid, unmoving stance.

The rat turned to the figure at his side, the awkward form who still held an orange plastic cup in his great hand. Quick, hushed words passed his thin lips.

The phrases drifted over her, familiar somehow, but unattainable. The great creature gave a jolting nod of his head, an abbreviated bow.

"Hai, Sensei."

Japanese. The language bobbed and floated in her clouded consciousness. The words, their meanings hid in the dense haze.

She was lifted and taken from the room, led by the revered Sensei.

Her skin twitched. Eyes bore into her , she knew. She could feel them as firm as flesh on her tender skin. It was _those_ eyes. Those eyes she had seen before.

Somewhere. Nebulous eyes. So dark, they shone. They absorbed all light; coveted it, gluttoned upon it, and devoured it. That darkness that lured the light into

it's depth, promising reprieve, only to claim the luminesence as it's own. She felt those eyes search her, stroke her, claim her. She felt them long after she was

escorted through the den, past the kitchen, down the shadowed hall.

His chambers.

The old rat moved assuredly in the dark, reaching for and finding candles, matches atop small tables. He positioned himself atop a pillow, gestured to a

similar arrangement in front of him. She was deposited.

They were alone.

He regarded her. Watched her. Studied her. He read her. And, in the short moments before they were interrupted, presented, formally with tea, and left alone

once more, he knew her.

She sat. She regarded him. Memorized his lines, his nuances, his presence.

He poured the water, steeped the herbs. Placing a small steaming bowl before her, he raised his own to his snout, breathing the healing, fortifying scent.

He sipped. He watched her.

She did the same. Raised the bowl. Breathed. Her gentle lips pursed and she blew over the top of the liquid, steam displacing, spreading across her face, across

the distance between them. She sipped.

He spoke;

"My child, there is much you have been through. My heart warms to see you so strong of body and mind. However, there are those who would still seek to harm you.

The Foot Clan is a worthy and dangerous advisary. Do not underestimate the danger you are in, nor the grave risk your presence poses to my family. We may be able

to sanction you, but I must know everything of your situation to do so. My child, what is your name?"

His black eyes drove into her. Sho looked down to her hands, bent and broken, balancing the hot bowl of nourishment. She blew across it. She sipped.

Her breath felt thin in her lungs.

"You have been quite generous, and - kind." Her voice was coarse, and quiet, as though unfamiliar to her own ears. The rat's ears prickled at the unusual lilt,

her unique inflection.

"You have my thanks, and my gratitiude.Your acts will not be forgotten.

My name is Angou Li."


	10. Chapter 10 Fragments

The hot water beat down against his skin. He leaned into the stream, bowing his head under the welcome assault.

He breathed. The air was hot, damp, thick, it sat heavily in his lungs. The water fell on his nape, trickling, streaming down his rounded shoulders,

tracing the contours of his weathered carapace. The extreme liquid heat melting away kinks, knots of muscle that had developed nights before,

slowly clenching as time passed until they felt tight, confining, restrictive. He felt claustrophobic in his own body. His muscles, his skin, seemed to

squeeze, clench, wrench. His mighty shoulders rolled, his neck twisting this way and that. A low growl rumbled in the back of his throat.

Two great olive-toned hands braced against the tiled wall. The soap sat in the third highest shelf, covered in suds, used and carelessly returned to

it's proper wire home. Droplets of water jumped from his arm, showering the lathered bar, rinsing it clean, pushing the suds to the floor of the tub

where they swam and twirled between huge toes before being flushed down the drain. After long moments under the seductive heat, Raphael reached

forward and turned off the shower. He stood in the stall, feeling the last drops of moisture ran down his body, letting his skin track each drop's path;

down the side of his neck, pooling slightly in the ridge of his clavical before overflowing, continuing down the front of his plastron, tracing each individual

plate of armor, seeking lower still. He felt the fingers of water tickle his inner thigh, felt them tease the muscle and sensitive skin, seeking lower still, finding

that hidden reccess of his knee, grazing the contours of his sculpted calf. The air hung, almost visible, heavy with moisture. He rolled his shoulder once

again, raised his head. He whipped the curtain aside, and was assaulted by cool air, it whispered over his body, stealing the momentary, coverted warmth.

He let it.

The bathmat dampened underfoot. He groped for the towel hook, grasping the first piece of fabric his fingers touched. Roughly, hastily, he dried himself.

The door made no sound as he exited the room. He stood, for a moment, outside the bathroom, in the hallway. Listening. Learning. His elder, he knew, had

abandoned training of the body for that of the mind long hours ago. He had been the last brother to stay with Raphael in the dojo after the official end of their

extensive morning routine. The door at the end of the hall stood closed. The girl was still with Sensei. And yet, Raphael could still sense her in his brother's

room. He could feel her imprint, feel the air her body had displaced. He could still smell her. He licked his lips, he chewed on the bottom. The door to his immediate

left was ajar, the room dark. The same with the door to his right, at the head of the stairs. He looked back to the end of the hall, the closed door. He huffed,

pushing the air from his nose.

His youngest brother was perched on the couch, his body taut, alert, feet flat on the floor. His entire focus, his entire skill devoted to the image he controlled

projected on the massive television screen.

"Where's Donnie?"

Michelangelo pulled his tingue back into his mouth, remoistening it before he replied.

"Scavenging."

"Hmmm." Raphael stood at the precipice of the living room. He glanced over his shoulder, at the tempting glow beyond the kitchen. The tell-tale glow of candles.

"They still in there, huh?"

"Yep." Michelangelo's eyes remained transfixed on the screen, his impatient fingers punching at the buttons in his palms.

"I'm suprised Donnie left, with her finally up and all."

"Heh. Yeah. He must have really been jonesin'. He's been in everyday since we brought her here, what was that, like, four days?"

"Hm." A sound of agreement.

"Said he wouldn't be long. He knew exactly what he wanted and where it would be."

"Yeah, sure. Till he sees something shiny."

"Heh heh. Yep. He can't be gone too long, though. I mean, he better not be gone long after Splinters done with her."

"Psh. What, Donnies a fucking GP now? Why didn't anyone tell me?"

"Yeah, well, he knows more than we do about that kinda stuff."

" Peh. You've bandaged me up before."

"Ok, yeah, well, thats different. You're Raph. I think we can pretty much slap duct tape on you and you'll be fine -"

A snort.

"- but she's, different, you know? She's, " a shrug. "- delicate."

Raphael stepped forward into the room. He slouched down in the closest chair, eyes absentmindedly resting on the television screen.

"Ya getting soft for her, Mikey?"

Michelangelo could hear the smirk in the words. He could feel his brother's piercing stare. He shrugged his shoulders. A small grin crawled over his face.

"She's pretty. You've seen her, Raph."

"Yeah, I've seen her." He let his legs fall out in front of the chair. " And I can god-damned smell her all over the fucking place, too."

A wicked glint shone in Michelangelo's eyes. It corrupted his smile.

"Feeling a little ansty there, bro?"

"Shaddup."

"So, if you're disappearing frequently for about ten minutes at a time, we'll know why that is. " He could hear his brother's quiet snicker under the noise of his game.

"Especially with The Season coming."

"I don't know. Could be nice to have some company down here for The Season." He glanced quickly over his shoulder to the beckoning candlelight. "Could make things a

little more comfortable."

"Raph!"

"I'm just saying, is all! Geez... And I know you're thinking the same thing." He rested his hands behind his head. A ghost of a smirk still softened the hard lines of his face.

"Yeah, " Michelangelo sighed, glancing past his brother, past the kitchen. "That'll be the day, huh?" His eyes snapped to his brother's face. "Two player?"

"Sure." Raphael stood, moved to his brother's side. He sat on the couch and leaned forward, scrambling with cords beneath the coffee table. He returned, plastic controller

in his grasp. The two brothers sat on the couch, eyes only for the giant screen before them, fingers moving quickly over small plastic buttons, seemingly of their own

accord. Michelangelo perched on the edge of the seat, swaying in movement with his character on screen. Raphael slouched against the back of the sofa, legs splayed

carelessly before him, hands cradled in his lap.

The sounds of the game filled the lair.

"Leo's in his room."

Michelangelo 's eyes drifted towards the staircase. His fingers paused briefly.

"Yeah, " His attention returned. "But he put in extra after the sesh this morning, huh?"

"Yeah. Just over an hour."

"Yeah, so, I mean. Thats something."

"It ain't alot." The words were almost lost under the series of beeps and explosions.

The screen paused. The noises silenced.

Raphael turned his head to find his brother turned towards him. They looked at one another for a moment before Michelangelo glanced down and blinked at his hands. Then;

"It's something. It's more than before. It's more than we've had."

Raphael's brow furrowed slightly. He dipped his head. "It's something. It ain't alot." He looked to the stairs. "It aint enough."

"It's a start. And Donnies told him not to strain anything. And he's been coming down alot more. He's been, you know, - out- more."

Raphael's head swung back toward the television. He leaned back against the cushions. His jaw clenched.

"Yeah."

Michelangelo blinked at his hands around the ergonomically designed controller. Raphael stared at the frozen screen.

"It's never gonna - "

"I'm gonna demolish ya."

Michelangelo stared at his brother.

"I'm serious. I will destroy you." The movement on the screen resumed.

"Oh, pish-aw! " Michelangeo turned back to the set. " Just sit back and try not to hurt yourself, old-timer!"


	11. Chapter 11 A Sense of Clarity

"Master?" The hesitant request from the doorway of Splinter's private chambers fell upon the rat's calm ears.

The quiet student at the door knew the single word, though uttered softly, had been easily heard by the shadowy figure, though no movement, no immediate acknowledgement

was visible. Several slow, measured breaths. A prickling of careful ears, then a response. A breathed "Yes, Leonardo. Enter."

He did so, kneeling before his father. His knees sank into pillows still warm from the Girl's presence. Currently, he knew, she was bathing, assisted (as much as her modesty, and

his respect and frank embarrassment would allow) by Donatello. His brother had returned to the lair, tardy, given his rough estimation at his departure. The Girl, however, at this

point was still occupied by their Master Splinter. The two had, by this time, had a rather involved conversation,and the guest had grown weary, falling asleep once more in the soft cocoon

of pillows in the dimly lit room.

Leonardo's knees itched where the warmth permeated his flesh.

"What is it that you wish to discuss, my son?" The rat's lip twitched at his son's shifting. How unlikely.

"Master. Father. I was hoping the Girl-" he steadied himself, filled his lungs. "-I was hoping the Girl could be moved ot Donatello's room." He noted the quick, sharp flick of his father's right

ear. "She would be closer to the bathroom, closer to the stairs. Don usually spends all night down here in his lab anyways, whether it's on the cot or in front of his computer. He barely

uses his bedroom anymore. I'm sorry, but the agreement was that she would occupy my room until she was well, until she woke. Also, her presence disturbs my meditation practices."

His eyes fastened on his own knees. The heat still tingled against his shins. He imagined the warmth as miniscule insects swarming his underside. He heard the steady intake of air

into his father's lungs. He hung in the void. He released his own breath as he heard it rush from the figure opposite him. He knew, if he had cared to look, that the rat would be sat, eyes

closed, mouth slightly agape, listening. Listening to the powers that be. Listening to his own sagely mind. Listening to the darkest reccesses of the young pupil's soul.

"You are correct, Leonardo. You have upheld your end of the initial agreement thus far. I will propse the move to your brother."

The turtle breathed deep into his lungs. He felt his belly swell. He allowed his eyelids to droop.

"He will have to tidy his room." The warm tone softened the complaint. "Perhaps you would be available to assist him in this task."

"Hm. If he'll let me." The corner of Leonardo's mouth fought upwards momentarily, then fell. "Thank you, Father."

"Hmm. Now, we will join your brothers. There is much I have to impart to you all."

The four brothers sat, scattered upon various pieces of furniture, clustered around the Rat. They were silent, absorbing, processing the information that had been presented.

The facts had been sparse. A general outline of the situation at hand; the Girl did indeed belong to the less-than-desireable Li family, and had been unfortunately caught in a

situation intended for a relation. A name; Angou Li. ("French. Angel." Donatello had murmured subconciously at this revelation.) The present situation; the Girl was to remain

until she was strong enough to ensure her own safety. Splinter had made clear his desire for his son's best behaviour, and most gracious attitudes, as she was, apparently,

exceedingly reluctant to agree to this final, drastic condition.

The rat perched on the couch cushion, head now bowed, eyes resting. He was listening to his sons, seeing them internally much clearer then he would had he raised his head.

Leonardo was the first to break the considering silence:

"The only way the Foot would know the route of the a private chauffeur would be a leak within the family, or someone greatly trusted. It's obvious. I don't see how she could

argue against the fact."

"But who wishes to think such things, Leonardo? They are her family."

The wind hissed out between his clenched teeth. " He knew. Casey knew. He knew who she was."

"He wouldn'ta dropped her on us like this if he knew." Raphael's words were sharp, pointed. His head snapped towards his brother.

"Really. Are you certain of that, Raph? Are you certain you know him so well?.. Still?"

A familiar tension spread through the air. It slowed, solidified around Leonardo; It popped, spat, off of Raphael.

A wicked smirk crawled over the bottom half of Raphael's face. The smile twisted his lips and crinkled his snout but didn't dare travel to the black eyes.

"Yeah, Leo. I'm so - fucking - certain."

Leonardo had been sat forward on the chair, arms rested on his knees, head in his hands as he thought. Now, he lifted his head, eyes only for his confident brother. His blue eyes

bore into black. He licked his lips.

"He knew."

"Enough!" Splinter spoke before the air grew thicker. "We all know now, and we must focus on what is to be done from here on. The past can be used to inform our decisions, but

cannot be changed, and therefore, will not be fought over. If not for Casey's interference, she would still be at the mercy of The Foot. A mercy, that sadly, does not exist. There will be no more

bickering over such inconsequential matters."

Leonardo let his head drop. His face flushed, he could feel the blood throbbing in his pores. His lungs heaved. "Yes, Sensei. I'm sorry."

Raphael merely stared at his brother's downturned head. His jaw flexed, clenching. His nostrils flared. He remained immobile.

"Angou wishes to meet you all after her grooming. This will not be her introduction to our family. Calm yourselves." He rose, swiftly making his way to his chambers.

"Donatello, clean your room, She will be staying there from now on.

I am not to be disturbed."


	12. Chapter 12 First Impressions

Michelangelo approached the door, pausing at it's entrance. Inside the room, he heard shuffling movements, rushed and purposeful. An odd whisper

an instruction, or perhaps a segment of a one-sided conversation drifted to his ear. He raised his hand, and rapped, twice, on the wooden door frame. He peeked his

head into the room. His brother stood, back hunched, arms full, head turned towards him, shuffling items from here to there.

"Donnie, need a hand?"

Donatello continued his cleaning. He had begun immediately upon being informed that he would now house their guest, and had set forth quickly re-organizing his carefully

divided collection of reading materials. Apparently shambled stacks of journals, texts, books, magazines that occupied a great deal of floor-space were reconsidered, some

combined, some remained seperate. Donatello condensed what he felt he reasonably could without major damage to his library system. He was now in the process of moving the

stacks to line the walls of the room. Stacks, some waist high, sat guarding others at their backs. Donatello lifted another stack, leaning it towards his chest to prevent spillage.

He regarded his brother's offer as he walked the collection to the corner. Michelangelo remained perched at the precipce of his room, not a toe over the threshold. Old habits, rules

so ingrained that they needed no reminding. Donatello estimated the minutes since the shower had been turned off. He calculated the Girl's speed, her injuries, the task of dressing herself.

"Uh, yeah, Mike. You could change the bedding. And that pile of cups and stuff I put by the door? Yeah, that can go downstairs. Thanks."

He stooped to move one of the remaining stacks as he saw his brother's shell disappear around his doorjam.

Angou stood, feeling the droplets of water run down her body. The thin towel around her shoulders did little against the chill. Her head drooped, and she watched

the pool around her feet as it swelled, rippled, as each drop fell, slid into it's collective mass. The polish on her toenails no longer carried the sheen of a top coat, the colour

chipped, broken, inconsistant. Random segments of pigment lifted from her feet. The remaining red, deep and dark, flashed vibrant against her bronze skin. Her wet hair hung,

plastered to the sides of her face, the back of her neck, her shoulders, her back. He raised her mangled hand, swiping bangs from her eyes. Metal slid against her forehead, the

folds catching stray strands, reluctant to let go. Her eyes fell to the pool in which she stood, her feet islands in it's midst. Her eyes blinked slowly, resting at the close before openning

once more, as she watched colour seep from her foot. It mingled with the water, striped it, polluted the puddle. The tendrils of pink, then red reached farther, intent on the out-most corners

of the pool. She shrugged the towel from her back, allowing it to fall to the floor. It consumed the pool. She stepped upon it, watching as the colour seeped onto the fabric, into the fabric.

It's movement now slowed, hesitant or unable to claim the cloth as it had the puddle.

Angou turned to the toilet seat. It's lid had been lowered and it stood as a table, her items neatly arranged for her use. Clothes sat, folded in a pile. Various bottles; cleanser, deoderant, other,

sat in rows behind. And, on top, an item Angou herself had found upon searching the many and thorough contents of the sac that was to sustain her. She picked it up now, plucking

it from the articles of black fabric. She rolled it between her healthy fingers, feeling the pattern, the nap, the weave of the thread. A single red thread, hand woven. She coiled the mass

of the long string in her palm. She raised her palm to her face. Metal touched her forehead once more, as she pressed the thread to her. She felt the weave against her lips, the scratch

of stray threads worn. And the scent. His scent. Still present. Encased in the string. Woven into it. Infused. The scent filled her sinuses, filled her lungs. It warmed her cold body. The thread felt

warm in her hand, as though it had just been removed from him. As though it carried his warmth. As though his heart beat through the woven material. Angou moved to the mirror and raised

her tender and sore arm, worked her crippled hand behind her right ear as best she could, not resting until the thread was woven into her hair. She pressed the damp braid to her face, and

the scent filled her. The scent of shampoo and Him. She stared into the depths of the dark eyes in the glass. He trusted them. These creatures. Trusted them with his life's duty. She would

trust them, then. Until He returned.

Donatello sat Angou in the closest easy chair. He was mindful of her delicate state, aware of the extent of damage, unconvinced by her stoic manner.

He had been careful not to grip her too tightly, to add to her numerous and increasing bruises. Still, he pressed her into his plastron, leaning into her soft heat. The damp chill of their home

reclaimed him as he set her down.

"Angou, if you're feeling up to it, I think maybe some soup and tea would be a good idea. When was the last time you've eaten?" Donatello remained crouched by the chair, speaking softly,

at equal height. Employing every tactic he could think of to minimize any threat of intimidation.

"I really wouldn't know, at this point."

"Okay. Mike, could you heat some of that soup, and put the kettle on, please?"

She watched as the jumpy character left, skipping over the back of the couch, and his seated brother as easily as one would step over a pair of discarded shoes. The one on the couch sat,

unaffected. He leaned into the back cushions, legs splayed obscenely, remote clutched loosely, seemingly forgotten in his right hand. His thumb stabbed at a button, the volume faded. He glanced

over at her in the chair. He took her in; face scrubbed, hair still damp, curling, the familiar set of track clothes that she now wore, the white, fresh bandages that wrapped her foot, her shoulder.

The white of the new gauze seemed to glow in the dim of the living room, contrasting against the black clothing. The skin that, nights ago, seemed to glisten, glow golded, bronze, in Casey and

April's loft now seemed somewhat matte. Flat. It's lustre lost. The glow had died with the fever.

He sniffed.

"You a Li?" His head remained fixed on the giant, animated screen. His eyes, however, bore into hers.

She licked her lips. He noted how her tongue lingered on the healing cut, moistening it.

"I am Angou Li. Yes."

He sniffed again. Cocked a lazy eyebrow. "You don't look chinese."

"Raph." Donatello's head spun in his brother's direction. " I'm sorry, he's just - "

"It's quite alright. I take no offense." Then; " I carry my father's name, and many of my mother's traits."

Raphael's brow twitched. He nodded gently.

"What was your mother, then?"

"Raph! -"

"She took after her father quite a bit. And he was Egyptian."

The side of Raphael's mouth pulled upwards. The smirk lightened his balck eyes, softened their depth. He turned his head to Angou.

"Well, aren't you just a genetic grab-bag."

"Raphael, that's enough! I'm sorry. He's well, an asshole. It's really the only explanation I have for his behavior. Present or future. I'm sorry."

"It's quite alright, Donatello. Actually, given present company, I really don't think I'd make the short list for poster-child of genetic feats."

A quiet noise escaped Raphael. Air pressed from his mouth, a hoarse sound that touched the back of his throat.

"Speaking of present company... Raph, Leo's in his room, I presume? I guess we should get him."

"Nah, let the Girl have some peace before he rips inta her."

"He wont rip into her." Each word enunciated, emphasized. A show of disbelief, skeptism. Then quickly, "he wont rip into you."

Angou blinked at him.

"Tshk. Don't lie to her."

"I'm not lying to her! I'm not lying to you!" Donatello smiled hopefully. It did not reach his auburn eyes. "He's just curious about you."

"Curious like a pirhana."

"Raph-"

"I'm just sayin', is all."

"Well, dont 'just say'"

"She should know."

"Would you just stop it? You're always so damned dramatic."

"I'm dramatic? Please."

"Yes, you, Raphael, are dramatic. I can't believe this is suprising you!"

"I am not dramatic! I'm cool over here, you're the one always getting your panties in a knot over some boring bullshit- "

"Oh, yeah, you're real cool! Just calm, and always thinking things through! I don't know what I was saying, Raph. You're right! You're right!"

"Okay now-"

" Oh my-" the small voice ended the increasingly heated conversation. Both turned to see two wide, dark eyes peering from over top a hand that rested before her mouth. Her words were muffled,

forced past her fingers. Her eyes shone. "You really are... brothers."

"Of course. Don't you see the family resemblance?" Donatello looked form Raphael to himself.

"Yeah, and just so we're all clear; I'm the good-looking one."

A small smile played on Angou's lips.

"Michelangelo said the same thing."

Raphael leaned back into the couch cushions once more. His thumb stabbed at the remote again, and the sound increased.

"Psh. Yeah, right. He wishes."


End file.
